


i'll see you soon, i'll see you soon

by rubber glue (Ssabishii)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: F/M, Graphic Depictions of Torture, Healing, Hurt Lance (Voltron), Kidnapping, Langst, M/M, Nightmares, Only tagged characters important to the plot, Panic Attacks, Permanent Injury, Rape Recovery, Sad Lance (Voltron), Slow Build, Suicidal Thoughts/Actions, Temporary Blindness, Torture Recovery, but nobody actually dies, klance, survivor's guilt, yall are gonna have to HALT tf up this bitch is gettin rewritten b4 I continue
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-22
Updated: 2018-03-28
Packaged: 2018-10-09 08:45:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 37,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10408344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ssabishii/pseuds/rubber%20glue
Summary: He’s never felt this empty before. This undying feeling of hopelessness sucks him dry. He’s so dehydrated, only nourished by the drips of water leaking through the cracks in the ceiling, that he can't even cry as his flesh sings with pain. Lance hurts. Lance hurts and no one is coming to save him.Or, Shiro didn't disappear and Lance is caught in unawares.





	1. set sail with cheap wood

**Author's Note:**

> i have lie 2478526845 unfinished works but shit i just binged voltron so lemme add to the collection

After the long and taxing battle that had just taken place, everyone was owed a much needed rest. The castle was darkened, the defenses up and running smoothly, the slow hum and whir of machinery a gentle buzz to carry the residents of Allura’s ship to a peaceful night's rest. Yet, the princess still lingered. Restless and awake. Staring into the vast oblivion of space. 

 

Her muscles were tense and she couldn't help but feel so… paranoid and antsy, as if the fight wasn't nearly over. Of course, Allura knew of dangers that lurked beyond Zarkon, she’d always known of the heir to the throne. Not that she was nearly close to telling the Paladins that their troubles concerning the Galra Empire were far from gone. For now, they deserved a rare moment of universal calm. They earned it, even. Allura understood that all of them are so unique because of their willingness to comply with what was considered such a strange situation to humans. Not every being that's told it has to defend the universe in a giant mechanical lion to form an even bigger mechanical soldier against furry, purple aliens will take the responsibility so quickly.

 

Honestly, the princess thought much more convincing would need to be applied, but the Paladins accepted the challenge and oddity with open arms. There had been minor complications along the way, but at this point she doubted any of them had the heart to turn back now. They were almost like… a family.

 

For a moment, Allura smiles at the thought. With her entire species wiped out (aside from Haggar, which she was still having much trouble processing), the Altaen woman had felt as though she might never have a familial bond with others. The mice were great companions, but they lacked the ability to have deeper emotional connections and understands. They were, of course, just Altaen mice. Then, that irritating itch beneath her skin returns and she remembers why she’s lounging in the control room, vigilant when she should be asleep.

 

Threats and dangers are tugging at her mind and she has not a clue as to why. Exhausted from the battle, Allura had guarded them from nothing for hours, with tired eyes heavy yet unable to leave the screen, blinking happily as though there was nothing to fear, waiting for something that seemed so urgent yet nonexistent at the moment. 

 

Suddenly, her elongated ears perk and she pushes herself from her sitting position immediately, instead shifting to a defensive mode. She’s picking up a noise, someone approaching,  _ this is what I must’ve been waiting for,  _ Allura thinks, sucking in a sharp breath and preparing to attack before - oh. The lights switch on to reveal Shiro, whose worn face is twisted in concern.

 

“Princess Allura?” Shiro asks tentatively in his rough, gravelly voice that is sluggish at the moment. Even with a composure so solid and cool, Allura had tell he has just woken up from a coma like sleep. “You should be resting… Please don't tell me you haven't slept since the battle?”

 

Face falling and shoulders sagging, the Altaen woman grunts. “Do you… not worry, Shiro?” 

 

Over the long period of time they spent working together and simply conversing between them, Shiro and Allura had formed a sort of platonic bond wherein they needed little words to get a point of question across to the other. This is demonstrated when the freshly napped man presses his lips together in a firm line.

 

“I… do. Of course I do. But, I also have a balance between my concerns for the team and my concerns for my own health. An understanding that I’d be of better use well rested than - “ 

 

“Exhausted.” Princess Allura finishes for him, relaxing her posture and planting herself back into the chair. “I can’t explain it, Shiro. It’s something very,  _ very  _ bad. I know it will happen soon, but I don’t know what it is or where. I…” She pauses, clutching the arms of the chair with both umber colored hands. “I hate to admit it, but this unknown threat  _ scares _ me like I haven’t been scared in a long time. Like… I haven’t been scared since the Galra attacked my people and I was frozen for ten thousand years.”

 

At the mention of the mass slaughtering that took place ten thousand years ago to Princess Allura’s people (and her father), the black Paladin softens. “If the threat is that serious, we should wake the others. Have Pidge try and locate whatever’s heading our way. Make everyone on the alert.”

 

The princess’s breathing stutters before evening back out. She tenses before deflating. “I hate to wake them so soon. They… They’re still just kids. This war has been hard enough without me sounding the alarms every time I get a funny feeling in my gut.” In a way, the coming of age of the Paladins wasn’t only changing the Paladins themselves, but Allura as well. In the beginning of this awkward, misshapen family dynamic situation, she would have sounded the alarms every time she  _ thought _ of the Galra attacking. Now… the dark skinned woman holds deep regards to the well being of the Paladins. 

 

“Do what you think is right, Princess Allura.” He says, placing a broad and calloused hand on the doorway. “I hold deep trust in you and in the thought that you know what's best for us.” A grin spreads across Shiro’s lips. Allura flushes at the sight.

 

“Th-Thank you, Shiro. Your advice is much appreciated.” She folds her hands in her lap, grinning to herself at the warm feeling settling in the swell of her cheeks. It’s a touching and gentle moment between the two, a rare occurrence. Shiro’s about to try and lure her off to sleep, when the moment is cut short.

 

It seems with this particular group of people, the good things never last long.

 

Fast, rapid beeps sound from the castle’s security system and the prince's all but jumps out of her skin when the alarm’s sound, effectively sending everyone darting into the control room within minutes. She frantically checks their stats and defenses and sweat breaks out on her temple. Having looked away for a few ticks and suddenly they’d been infected with a virus - all defense systems were down and their arms were still shot from the battle.

 

“What’s going on?” Keith is the first one to ask, as he glances around worriedly, as if searching for the root of the problem. 

 

Pidge is already seated at her station and checking out the problem. “Someone’s infected the castle with a virus and none of our defenses can react because of it!” She belts out in a panicked tone, which is unusual. Allura knows, now, that she was right.

 

They were being attacked.

 


	2. The Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the chaos, they barely notice he's gone until he's not there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm honestly so excited writing this i can't even

“Hunk, we need you to get out there with Keith to try and get our offense back up! Shiro and Lance, get to your Lions and fend off whatever’s attacking long enough for them to repair the damages! Pidge and Coran, your only job is ridding of that virus and getting our defenses up again!” Allura commands quickly, trying to find a way out of this, a proper place to worm hole to. Shiro was right, the sleep deprivation is making it a little difficult to function under this pressure and her exhausted brain is having trouble coming to a solution.

 

Everyone’s rushing to follow her directions, screaming over each other. This chaos is expected fresh out of a battle and having just woken up from deep slumber, but that's not what princess Allura’s throbbing headache thinks of the situation. Keith is the first to approach her with complaints. “Have Lance help Hunk, I’ll go with Shiro in my lion. If that idiot’s going to get in someone’s way, better it be Hunk's than Shiro’s. The lions are the castles only offense right now and we can't jeopardize that.” His face is as serious as always, brows low set and frowning. She returns the look.

 

“Now is not the time to undermine your teammates, Keith.” She says desperately, rubbing one tired eye with her fist. “If you’d have faith in Lance as a fellow Paladin, then we could commence with my instructions without complications.” 

 

Red lights flashing all around, Allura supposed this is the perfect area for a typical Lance - Keith showdown to occur. The Red Paladin is about to respond, most likely to insult the Blue Paladin, when the latter cuts him off with his own comment, as he’s pulling on the rest of his suit in a hurry. “Really, man, you're that jealous that I got a cooler job that you're gonna complain to Princess Hot Stuff herself?” Lance delivers a suggestive wink to the woman. 

 

“Now is most definitely not the time for your primitive Earth flirting!” Princess Allura shouts, reprimanding the two. “Keith, this isn't a matter of who’s a better Paladin, it’s a matter of who will make the better choices! With how testy you’ve been as of late, you’ll be better fixing the ship than out on the field and I apologize but with your risky behavior that is how it  _ must  _ be.” Flicking a strand of white hair over her shoulder, she returns her attention to potential wormhole locations. She simply cannot give them anymore mind of hers. They must complete their assignments while Allura focuses on completing her own.

 

To an extent, it works. Keith glares at the ground for a while before accompanying Hunk to fix the castle and Lance awkwardly flounces off to his lion behind Shiro. Pidge is mostly muttering to herself while typing away in an assumed effort to decode the virus while Coran works as best he can on the internal repairs and trying to locate whose attacking them in the first place. Despite the severity of the situation, Allura finds herself nodding in and out. In. And. Out. Black spots fill her vision and she thinks,  _ Huh. Shiro really was right. _ Before being startled awake by Pidge’s cry of, “It’s the Galra!  _ Again!” _

 

Scenario’s zip through her mind like pesky insects and relentless pests. “How could they recover so quickly? How could they find us so quickly?” Her breath is catching in her throat and it takes her a moment to regain her composure. “I’ll keep looking for - “

 

The screen goes blinking and read with Galran text that Allura can only decipher bits and pieces of. She drains of color, the blood in her body rushing to her toes. “They’ve infiltrated our ability to wormhole.” She mentions grimly. “Pidge, please work urgently to shut that virus down. I - It’s infecting the whole castle!” She struggles to stay cool with panic and anxiety building so quickly. How can she still feel that this is just the tip of the iceberg? 

 

Through her head gear, Lance’s voice tunes in. “Holy Quiznaks! That’s… a lot more Galra than I was expecting! How did they regroup so soon? Isn’t their leader like, all dead, and stuff?” Allura grimaces at the last bit.  _ And there is an heir to their leader’s rule, Blue Paladin. _ She thinks but does not say. She just didn't want to acknowledge that Prince Lotor might come seeking them all so soon. 

 

“Lance is right.” Shiro pipes up as well, voice a calming soothe to the whirlpool of just downright bad lack happening around them. 

 

“ _ Of course I am!”  _ Lance’s childishly charming voice adds before Shiro continues. “There’s way too many Galra for just Lance and I to take on. We need to form Voltron.”

 

“We  _ need _ to shut out this virus!” Pidge barks, her typing and swiping at the screen now furious. “I need to fix this and you can’t form Voltron without me!”

 

“ _ This is stupid!”  _ Keith growls into his head gear with the faint sounds of welding and metal scraping against metal being heard in the background. “I should be defending the castle and Lance should be repairing the weapons!” 

 

“You know, you don't have to make it so obvious that you think you're better than me all the time, Mullet-head!” Lance whines in response. 

 

“And what’s so awful about working on repairs with me that you have to complain so much about it?!” 

 

More bickering and arguing ensues, and somewhere amongst that Pidge’s face lights up. “Everyone, shut up! I’ve got it, I found out the right encryption to block the Galra’s virus from our systems! Don’t worry Allura, we’ll be able to escape the Galra through a wormhole in no ti - “

 

“H-Hey, guys! Bad stuff’s happening over here in Blue central!” Lance’s suddenly panicky voice informs. “There’s a crap ton of Galra soldiers that just  _ forced  _ their way into my lion! I - I think there’s much more than the Lance man can handle.” His nervous chuckle is too forced for anyone to be comforted by it. 

 

“Shiro, please get to Lance as soon as you can. Lance, defend yourself as much as you can and try to drive the Galra out of your lion, we can't let them capture blue! We’ll be ready to wormhole in just a short moment.” She scrolls through the places they can wormhole to, trying to find one as far away from here as possible, but she can't find any neutral or ally territories that are far enough away to warrant their safety. 

 

“Princess Allura,” Coran says as he stares with a dreadful gaze at the image on his screen, “I regret to inform you that reaching Lance is the least of Shiro’s issues.”

 

The three of them turn to look at what has tied Coran in such worrisome knots, and in unison, Pidge and Allura grow ten shades paler. The sheer size of the armada is enough to make Allura dizzy. “Change of plans.” She says seriously, her tone flat with urgency. “Everyone, get back to the castle as fast as possible. We must wormhole away, quickly. We have to prepare for another battle, one that we cannot face right now.”

 

The alarms sound louder than ever. She hears an affirmative from about everyone and starts diverting all their power to a far,  _ far  _ place where there’s only non sentient species for light years, a peaceful area with inhabitable planets. Hunk and Keith are the first ones back, their armor covered in a fine sheen of motor oil. Her screen flashes, once blue, once black, and she knows they are ready to go. “Brace yourselves!” She bellows before pressing the button that blasts a wormhole before them. They escape, albeit narrowly, and everyone slumps in relaxation, panting from the intensity.

 

“Still should’ve gone instead of Lance,” Keith manages as he pulls his helmet off, attempting to clear off the oil yet only succeeding in smearing it further. He grunts.

 

When no snarky and comical response comes, they glance around. It still doesn’t come. Allura’s focus shifts to Shiro, who’s as equally confused as the rest of them. “Lance landed alright, is he still with his lion?” He shrugs. Hot, queasy fear tightens in her gut once more, strong and gripping. Oh no. 

 

Falling over each other, they all rush to the chamber where the blue lion is kept, seeing him fully in tact. They call to Lance, going as far as climbing into the blue lion themselves, only to find the remnants of crushed Galra bots and a blue helmet. Allura’s heart drops into the pits of her stomach and she feels it start to dissolve in her inner acids.

 

If being caught in unawares wasn’t bad enough, it seemed now that the Blue Paladin had been kidnapped by the Galra and their new leader; Prince Lotor.

 

Allura passes out.

 

-

 

Things hadn’t gone well for the Lance man today.

 

For one, he was awoken from his much needed beauty sleep by alarms blasting in his face and Keith shouting at him to, “ _ Wake the fuck up, we’re being attacked!” _ causing Lance to promptly flop onto the floor. This ribs still ached from that, someone remind him to thank his favorite mullet fucker for that. 

 

Another reason is his self esteem had been severely damaged when the aforementioned mullet fucker had taken a massive shit on all that sharpshooting confidence he’d built up last episode. He knows he’s not as skilled as the other Paladin’s and that they’d be letter off without him, he was practically just an inconvenient liability to his ‘team’, but he didn't have to be so rude about it! Lance could go his whole life knowing how worthless he is and not having it being said to his face like that. It was just plain  _ hurtful _ .

 

Finally, and this point will pretty much be the reason for all of Lance’s bad days from here on out, he had just been kidnapped by the Galra and now his head felt like it had been stepped on by a Yupper. He’s chained up and really it has him in quite the awkward position where his arms are up, bound by chains that are linked the ceiling, and his legs are bent and spread, calves strapped to thighs and connected to heavy metal rings as well, also leading up to the ceiling. In short, the blue Paladin feels exposed and vulnerable,  _ mildly uncomfortable _ , if you will.

 

Even more so when someone enters the cold, damp room. Clearly Galra with long white hair and piercing yellow eyes that make Lance’s eyes hurt when he catches direct contact with them, a hunkering lean man of an alien. Sculpted and grinning in a way that makes a full body shudder wrack his bones. “I don’t mean to be rude or anything, but of all ways you could’ve chained me up.” 

 

This draws a chuckle from the other, who paces the room and it reminds Lance of the time he’s gone on a school field trip to the zoo. Of course, they hadn’t actually seen a lioness do this, but he’d seen a video of it when they settled down for lunch. Stalking her prey with sharp, golden eyes, as they sat as if awaiting their own slaughter. So unsuspecting and at peace before being torn to shreds and devoured. Lance silently prays that this isn’t the same type of situation. 

 

“To expose every part of you to me, Paladin of Blue,” His gaze flickers over Lance’s lower areas briefly and he feels a flush crawling up his neck at the sight of this  _ creep _ observing him so openly splayed and pathetic, “after all, you’ll be my prisoner for a while. This is just first of many ways to make your stay here unpleasant.”

 

“Thanks for the warm welcome, kind sir.” He says back with a tiny grin, if only to try and convince himself that he wasn't terrified of the situation. That he didn't feel like over hyperventilating and crying for help from his team. That there was very well a possibility that they still didn’t know he was gone. 

 

“My pleasure.” Lance can't tell if the Galra just don't get sarcasm or if he’s getting sassed right back. “You may call me Prince Lotor, for the time being. Just in case your sub being brain was wondering.” 

 

His smile is lined with sharp teeth that make Lance’s pulse quicken, imagining how quickly those edges could rip out one’s jugular. Rip out  _ his  _ jugular. Though, he somewhat feels that’s far from what Prince Lotor has planned for him.

 

“I wasn’t, but whateves. You can call me Lance the man, while we’re at it. Or Sharpshooter. Or Defender of the Universe. Any of those terms you are free to call me.” He winks at Prince Lotor to keep up the schtick only to immediately regret it afterwards as he’s in this particular position and that would make for a  _ very _ bad time if the dude decided to take him up on the offer that gesture suggested. 

 

The prince pauses in his pacing to cock his head at Lance, much like a curious woodland creature. “I… don’t understand why you would offer so many terms.” The questioning look disintegrates and is replaced again by cool smugness. “But, I think I’ll call you…  _ dog _ . Isn’t that a creature on some planet? An obedient little pet that one could definitely live without?”

 

Lance is about to shoot out a reply along the lines of, ‘ _ Shut up, ugly _ ’ when a curt knock on the door to this drippy concrete box interrupts the chat. 

 

“Come in.” Prince Lotor says, voice smooth and disciplined in tone. Another Galra peaks his head in, hardly sparing Lance a glance ( _ hehe, that rhymed!  _ The blue paladin notes with a chuckle) before bowing and speaking.

 

“My lord, all of the preparations have been made for the human and there is still the option of leaving the dirty work to others as to not spoil your royal hands.” The Galra glares at Lance from his peripherals as if Lance had anything to do with what he just said. Really, he can just hope that had nothing to do with him and that the fat Galra just disliked Cuban teenagers being strapped to ceilings in front of prince's.

 

“You say that as if royalty spoils so easily,” Prince Lotor broads, brushing a lock of white hair over his shoulder, grin sly as he gazes with desire flickering in his narrow and elegant eyes. “And besides, I look forward to breaking this one in myself.” Lance smiles lopsidedly to ease the panic in his throat. 

 

He had no idea that this was just the beginning.


	3. tell me, where are you now?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Days pass and tension grows thicker. Trigger warning, fucked up shit ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've never been more excited writing a torture scene huehue ;>

An entire week.

An entire week and still they had no clue as to the whereabouts of Lance.

Every day without him had the mood growing more tense for everyone - Hunk thought that it was so thick that it was hard to breathe without inhaling everyone’s mixed anger and guilt. Or maybe that constricting feeling in his lungs is from having his fun-loving and playful best friend in such an awful, gut clenching situation. It was just painful to think the Galra could do whatever they want to Lance. It made the yellow Paladin’s stomach churn.

In the midst of the search, he keeps getting lost in memories of his and Lance’s time on Earth. It serves to make Hunk mildly concerned because it seems like every time someone in a book or movie is swept up in their memories of being with another person, it’s because that person is trying to reach out mentally. Reaching out, of course, because they’re either dead or dying. The yellow Paladin hopes that neither of those completely realistic possibilities are happening. But, hope only takes one so far.

He felt useless in the search for his best friend. As Princess Allura, Pidge and Coran could be of plenty of assistance to finding the blue Paladin from inside the discomfort of the castle, scouting the galaxy for the Galra armada that had attacked them, all Hunk could do was focus on getting the castle in shape for it’s next battle. Shiro helped him (they took shifts, even though Shiro wasn’t half the mechanic Hunk was) but Keith was sensitive to the touch and broaded about like a ticking time bomb. If Lance’s disappearance was putting the rest of them on edge, then it was about to shove the red Paladin off a cliff. For some reason, that makes Hunk slightly infuriated, because maybe if Keith had focused on compromise instead of competition, Lance wouldn’t have been taken in the first place.

Besides that, what right did Keith have to act so worried now? All he did when Lance was around is pick fights with him and constantly put the blue Paladin down like he was… above him or superior in some way. So, why when Lance is gone did Keith start to act like he cared? More importantly, how dare he let his newfound worry affect his usefulness to the goal at hand? No one could work with him when he was like this and that wasn’t helping the search at all.

They’re all worried and the tense atmosphere is consuming them because Lance isn’t here to break it, but that can’t be an excuse. Hunk tries to let it be a motivator even if it’s terrifying to think that for all they know, Lance was killed days ago. Literally anything could be happening to him and none of them would know, or be there to stop it.

“Fucking ridiculous!” Keith hisses before angrily chucking the blow torch at the charred surface of split metal, where it bounces off and floats away. Hunk frowns.

“If it were up to me, I’d let you go cool off, but ya’ know, it’s really not up to me, so.”

He lets out a sigh as his shoulders go lax. All this work was making him ache all over, but this is the first time he feels it’s minimal, not enough, and nothing to complain about when Lance’s life is at stake. “I know you’re, like, really worried about Lance, but you have to at least try to keep that in check. To an extent, I mean, because I understand, I really do. We just… we need you to keep a clear head so that you can assist us in the rescue of Lance. Like, throwing a hissy fit is really not going to help.” He looks back at the torn up and dead cold offense weapons, yet to be repaired.

This produces the opposite of the desired outcome when Keith seethes further. “If we really cared about Lance, we’d stop sitting on our asses all day and go try to find him!”

In any other situation, he wouldn’t let Keith get to him, (“He’s just a really, really emo mullet wearing asshole with no filter!” Lance would’ve said so nonchalantly with a grin and Hunk’s chest starts to ache again) but despite his quiet worry and queasy composure, he’s just as strung up as the rest of the team. He takes the bait, letting his focus slip from his assignment to setting his fellow Paladin straight. “The only one sitting on their behind around here seems to be you, dude. You don’t even try to act like you’re contributing to the search! You just whine and cry and bellyache all day.” His voice fades lower towards the end as he crosses his arms across his broad chest. “You act like you care about Lance, but if you really cared you’d be helping a little.”

“I can’t help a search that’s not happening!” Keith barks out ferally and Hunk is reminded that he’s not human. Somehow, he’s never exactly noticed Keith’s peculiar eye color, until now. Deep violent that gets more intense as his voice grows louder and his control of his emotions gets looser. “Searching entails going from place to place and taking action! And instead we’re gonna lock ourselves inside the castle and wait for the Galra to get impatient and off Lance?” There’s evident disgust in his tone, as if it’s gross to think that they could be doing anything useful without it being violent.

“Listen, buddy, if we go blindly into battle with our blue Paladin missing, we will get completely annihilated. I’m sorry that you can’t comprehend the possibility that the rest of us strategize and don’t act impulsively and put everyone at risk because we can handle our own emotions and don’t place ourselves above everyone else, but we’re trying!” His voice grows thick and Hunk can’t seem to control what’s flooding out anymore. “We’re trying so hard to get him back and we’re all scared, we’re all worried! We’re all so scared for him! You’re not making anything easier and you’re not acting like someone who really even cares about Lance!”

Given that Keith is about the most violent and overdramatic person he’s ever encountered, that particular combination of fluent words in the English language should have struck a cord in Hunk’s brain that said, ‘Hey, be careful, you’re talking to a psychopath with Galra blood running through his veins’, but unfortunately in the heat of the moment, Hunk’s usual brand of anxious logic is out of commission. The first punch hurts purely because of the shock and panic that goes skin deep and worms around in his flesh. He’s only ever fought with a common enemy, but this is an exception ; with all the tense stress and fear and anger quickly flooding back full force, this has to be an exception.

Surging deep into his gut, putting all of his raw, unabashed strength into it, he swings at Keith with a heavy gloved fist that connects with Keith’s visor and throws his head back. It’s a series of yelling, blaming, name calling and metal against metal in an attempt to inflict damage from outside the armor before they both wear out. They’re panting and it’s astonishing that neither of their helmets cracked, but Hunk just guesses that’s the extent of alien technology and some really advanced resources.

This solves nothing. This aggravates Keith further and Hunk knows this. They waste valuable time glancing gloved fists off each other when Lance is gone. The tug of tears behind his eyes in inevitable and so the yellow Paladin doesn’t resist. He lets it carry him. His round cheeks are so hot from the fury of emotions rushing through him that the tears are soothing on his skin. He’s always been a little more sensitive and beneath this pressure and stress, he just can’t hold it in. Lance would’ve pat his back and hugged him in his long arms and comforted him almost like a mother would. Lance is just good with people like that.

But, alas, Lance is not here.

Keith offers him a sympathetic glance, places a hand on Hunk’s trembling shoulder and does the unimaginable; pulls him into his chest. It’s awkward, given the size difference, but Hunk can’t bring himself to be too concerned about that. He shushes him and pats the back of his helmet about in a comforting gesture, whispering soothing phrases to him. One in particular catches Hunk’s attention and keeps it for a long, long time. He tosses in bed that night, even, pondering it.

“I’m scared for my Lance too.”

Since when was Lance Keith’s?

-

“Over a vkhaldon in my grasp and not one of your alleged team members has come to the rescue?”

Prince Lotor’s voice is slimy and grating in Lance’s ears and he could imagine his smirk, but couldn’t see it, the grimy cloth over his eyes casting everything in shades of fuzzy red. Then, he hears the continuous turning of a crank and he pulls his lips (dry gummed together from hours of being sealed firmly) into a line. He tries to smile, he really does, but there’s a familiar tugging at his limbs and he can barely find it within himself to keep from screaming. Lance feels that maybe his screaming is akin to a sick reward and one that Lotor will never earn.

Somewhat, it does register that this has gone on for a while. He doesn’t know how the Galra measure their time and refuses to ask, so he’s been mostly in the dark every time Lotor tells him how much time has passed since he was brought here, but he’s been trying to learn. He’s figured out the seconds that equal ticks (just like how Allura and Coran measure their time and Lance wants to sob at what feels like a distant memory that’s so far away, wants to be rescued already, can’t take this anymore) minutes that are becker’s, hours are ziplets and years are turns. That leaves a vkhaldon to be either a month or a week.

He’s been enduring for either a month or a week and he’s been blindfolded for so long he can’t honestly tell which one it is. He’d love to take a shot in the dark, for hope, and say it’s a week because how could his friends let him go an entire month with this creep? Suddenly, Lance is yanked out of his wishful thinking by a harsh tug at the wheel and bites his tongue hard enough to pierce to hold in his screams. Really, it feels like he’s getting ripped apart and he has a pretty good visual image of what the contraption he’s strapped to must look like.

It had to be a human torture device, only the medieval rack could do the things this contraption is doing to him. He yearns to ask how Lotor could his hands on one of these (as they must be pretty hard to come by, functioning, even on Earth, much less in space) but his pride won’t let him. He starts babbling uselessly, if only to keep his mind intact, to let himself know that he’ll be okay, but it’s a short lived moment of comfort. Another crank and Lance’s joints are all popping and loosening. The blue Paladin can’t help it. He let’s out a gut turning scream that would serve to make Hunk throw up (maybe even iron stomached Shiro would hurl at the painful sound) and as expected, Lotor lets out a cruel bark of laughter.

“Speak for me, pup, speak!” He commands, voice low and as if he really were just an obedient dog, he begins his cycle of babbling again.

Rambling about Earth and the cool feeling of rain on his skin and the yummy yellow sun warming his flesh as he lays on the pleasantly grainy sand, the salty smell of the beautiful sea foam ocean as it sprays against his face in the early morning, the organized and comfortable chaos of his home that he returns to, his siblings whining and fighting and hanging off of him like loose fitting clothes. The next scent is his Mama’s cooking, serving to make his stomach growl and moan in emptiness, and the memories encompass him like a blanket that’s trying to protect him from the world beating down on him before Lotor tugs the wheel again and sickening squelches make his eyes roll back into his head as he keens horridly.

For a second, Lotor holds him there, watching with interested and cold yellow eyes as the blue Paladin writhes in pain and makes noises the devil would shiver at. Then, he releases the pull of the rack so suddenly that an entirely new pain invades Lance’s entire body. His lungs are shredding themselves and his throat is bloody and raw from the new volume he reaches with his pleads and cries. Briefly, Lance thinks about how they are probably the most unattractive and blood curdling sounds he has ever made. He prays, he prays so hard his faith aches, that he won’t make them again, and if he does, then please dear God not for much longer.

But, they say God works in mysterious ways.

“I guess that’s enough for today,” Lotor says, sounding oddly disappointed, “Haggar will be in to heal you within a few ziplits. In the meantime, speak to me. About your fellow Paladins.” Lance can feel the grin forming on the Galra prince’s purple lips.

After another sob tears from his heaving chest, he complies frantically. Yes, maybe this will keep him alive. The promise that they’ll be here soon, that he won’t be with this monster of his for much longer. The promise that he’ll cling to his sanity long enough for them to arrive, Keith and the others. He talks much about Keith, about his antisocial pessimism and harsh way of saying things that make Lance’s heart pick up speed tenfold. How he can meet Lance head on in anything and rise to any challenge, never failing to make his face turn ten shades darker and make him feel like there’s liquid nitrogen in his veins and he’s balancing lit match after lit match on the tip of his nose.

Soon enough, Lance can’t keep talking because his sobs and panicked breathing have swallowed his ability to speak and he’s alone again, so alone that he wonders if he’ll ever make it out, if anyone even knows he’s gone, if he should just give up. He wants to curl into himself, but any movement sends fresh licks of pain down his limbs, so he remains still as he trembles, silent as he screams.

It occurs that maybe no one can save him from this grim fate he’s living in.

“Beautiful, beautiful pained barks you have, Paladin of Blue,” Lotor’s voice speaks over the void consuming everything within Lance, dragging him into the depths of himself. “Speak, keep speaking.” A thumb brushes over his wet cheek, grazes faltering, bitten lips and Lance does not even have the strength to resist, even when cold lips meet the colder swell of his face, peppered over dying, yet feverish human flesh that’s perfection from years of care is decaying. “Speak, even though no one will hear your pathetic pleas; only you and I, Paladin of Blue.”

_Only you and I._

_You and I._

_You and I._

Endless echo in blackening void and Lance can’t help it;

he laughs.


	4. 'till the blame grew too heavy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lotor offers the team a peak at their friend. Lance ponders his own self-worth as he rots.
> 
> Trigger warning, more fucked up shit. Honestly, this entire fic deserves one giant stamp of TRIGGER WARNING, because this isn' even the bad part.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to fit a couple more forms of torture that Lance could survive before getting to the bad one i have planned, so i mean,,,,, suggestions maybe?? are y'all just as sinful as i? bc tbh i could write about my pride and joy lance getting tortured all day long.
> 
> sIDE NOTE i think this is my longest chapter so far, so like maybe don't expect a new one immediately bc uh,,, i plan for the next one to be even longer

 

One month, two weeks into their relentless search and repair process, some Galra with long white hair brushed neatly back from his face and an air of royalty (hinted at with his obviously royal garbs he adorns) lights up Allura’s screen, immediately catching everyone in the control’s rooms attention. Pidge included, who fumbles to keep from dropping her kind-of-espresso that Hunk had recently concocted as she fixes her glasses and focuses on the screen with frozen, owl-like interest.    
  


“Princess Allura,” She says with her voice a flat tone, still staring incredulously at the screen with round eyes, breath hitched in her throat, “who the quiznak is that?” 

 

At the comment, the Galra only laughs before he’s halted by Allura’s own furious interrogation. “Lotor, your filthy face serves no right to be seen by me! How dare you contact us with your slimy, dirty, cruel hands?! What have you done with Lance! You’ll be best to return the blue Paladin to us immediately or so help me Voltron will rain fire down - “

 

“Allura, please,” Lotor says, wiping a tear from his yellow eye caused by his hysteric giggling, “we both know your attempts will be futile with the blue lion’s pilot in my ‘filthy’ hands. You really were that eager to talk to me, though?” The Galra arches a perfect white eyebrow at the Princess and Pidge watches the exchange with mild interest. 

 

Wait, what?

 

Now, Pidge has always considered herself bright and intellectual even under the most crushing of pressure ( _ which, as of late crushing isn’t nearly severe enough to describe the pressure the remaining members of their family like unit are struggling and scrabbling under - after all, the glue that holds them all together is so suddenly gone and they’re all falling to ruins _ ) but she’s trying to make connections and failing. Allura knows this Lotor guy, but who is he? How does he have Lance? Could this possibly be another Galra that has already stepped up to take Zarkon’s place? That still doesn’t answer why they kidnapped Lance when the black lion and it’s Paladin has always been the only the Galra were after.

 

“Never eager to talk to you, as much as I’m eager to crush you and your entire fleet, foul scum.” The Altaen woman growls in response, much angrier than Pidge has ever seen her. Her composure is slipping so easily for this  _ \- Lotor. _ It seems she knows him. It seems… It seems she knows a lot more than she lets on. A frown tightens Pidge’s features and she flips on her headset, requesting everyone return to the Castle control room. Both to listen to what Lotor has to say and then guilt trip the princess into revealing information she’s apparently been hiding. 

 

Though, she all but jolts (that espresso made her much jumpier here than on Earth; that’s probably the side effects of it being a kind-of creation of Hunk’s) when she realizes she shouldn’t be standing there dumbly. This was a connection to the Galra’s whereabouts. She could trace the signal Lotor was using to communicate with them all the way back to his ship. Pidge flings herself back into her station, trying to keep an ear out on the direction of the conversation, but eventually just has Rover record the whole thing. 

 

A moment later Keith, Hunk and Shiro emerge from the door, all three covered in oil and charred welding burns, which serves to tell Pidge that they’ve been overworking themselves. She’d thought… that maybe Shiro would’ve taken the initiative and given a speech on how they should rest just as much as they work. But, it seems he’s just as careless about his own state as the rest of them have grown. Chewing her bottom lip, she watches the ticks on the timer she’s set - one hundred and twenty ticks until she could get Lotor’s full location. Princess Allura just had to keep him on for what was essentially two minutes in Earth time. 

 

Which, she seems to have no trouble doing. Lotor seems to be dragging her through it, Keith occasionally demanding answers from the Galra through gritted teeth, with clenched fists. Hunk looked so strung up about the whole exchange that his entire face was dark cherry red. Shiro stood with an eery calm plaguing him, a hand placed on Allura’s battleclad shoulder. One phrase in particular catches everyone’s attention, Pidge’s included, finally ripped away from the screen. Sometimes, she got so into his work that she couldn’t help but block everyone out, ignore the world and lose herself in code. But, this thing in particular is one thing she could not ignore. 

 

“Do you all wish to see the Paladin of Blue? For, how do those Earthlings say, insurance purposes?” To distract herself from the mounting fear in her chest, she maps out the images in the background of Lotor, looking for something familiar. It’s nothing but gray concrete, but she scrapes every pixel into her brain. Then, incredulously, something shifts in the farthest corner. Her jaw tightens. He’s not yanking their chain ; he’s really willing to let them see Lance, his prisoner. 

 

None of them can bring forth a response out of the shock sizzling through them. Lance. He actually has him. After a month and two weeks, he’s right on the other end of this call, awaiting their arrival. “Well?” Lotor twists his mouth impatiently and at the same time Pidge shouts out, “No!” Keith shouts, “Yes!”

 

They share a glance and Pidge’s heart melts. Keith… he looks desperate and pleading. It’s a look Pidge’s never seen on him, one that doesn’t suit his normally cold exterior. Pidge knows he won’t understand, maybe the others don’t either, but they can’t see Lance. It’s just a tactic to make them rush mindlessly into battle. Yes, Lotor is willing to let them see their team memeber; all too willing. They’ll show them an image of Lance that will tear them to shreds. That will make them frantic and anxious. Lotor wants to draw them right into his hands using Lance. As much as it will kill them all to not run helplessly towards Lance, they can’t let Lotor’s predictions be true. They must take their time and plan carefully. They must trust that Lance can endure.

 

“Of course we’d like to see Lance!” Coran speaks up, gripping the edges of the control panel at his station so hard his gloves squeak against the surface of Altaen metal. “Show him to us immediately, or we’re hanging up the call!” 

 

As soon as Pidge opens her mouth to hurriedly decline the offer and hopefully get the point through her comrade's heads, Lance is filling the screen and her mouth snaps shut. If Lotor wanted to lure them into a trap, this was definitely the most effective way to do it. 

 

Alive. That’s the only thing that Pidge can find that’s even slightly good about this predicament and that probably doesn’t even sound good to Lance. She can’t help it. After all this relentless searching through the cosmos, her not working as hard as she could, not as hard as Lance deserves, this feels like all her fault. 

 

The first sob isn’t hers, though. It’s Keith’s. Pidge doesn’t know what to do, why this cork is stuck in her tear ducts and won’t let her release all the emotions begging to burst out like water from a broken dam. She chokes up, goes red faced. The one closest to her is Hunk, so she goes purely by instinct (just this once) and she hugs him, hard and cries. Cries because no matter how many nights wide awake she’s spent scouring the universe for her friend, how many times she’s imagined the absolute worst happening to the blue Paladin, how many times she’s mentally braced herself for every passing second spelling a worser fate for Lance, nothing could have prepared her for the freight train of guilt that hits her head on. 

 

Hunk is warm a soft when he cradles Pidge, quiet sniffles of his own shaking his plump frame as he pats her head. It’s comforting, almost, even when Lance is still on the screen, even when Allura and Coran are scrabbling about the break the connection, even when he suddenly smiles. She freezes. 

 

His body is bruised like he’s been through a thousand battles all at once, and he’s slumped in torn up rags of the underskirts of his armor, against a concrete wall. He looks like he couldn’t move if he wanted to (hence no chains, Pidge notes) and there’s a red rag stained with dollops of white over his eyes. Though, upon closer inspection, the rag was probably white in the beginning and stained so red with… her stomach churns and she pales. Yet, despite his ‘inches-from-death’ condition (at best) there’s a grin seated so playfully on his bloody lips. 

 

“I knew you guys would come for me,” Lance says, voice dry and weak as he tries to shift, “I knew you wouldn’t let him kill me! I’ll bet Pidge and her big ol’ nerd brain has already found out where Lotor is and you guys are all on your way now!” At the mention, she glances at her screen with fogged glasses and bloodshot eyes. Her eyes grow to the size of dinner plates and she slips from Hunk’s hug to save the location of Lotor’s armada.

 

Lance speaks up again. “I believe in you guys! B-But please hurry, because I don’t know how much more of this I - “ the screen goes blank. 

 

Keith bolts from the room and Shiro won’t look at any of them. Pidge takes a stuttering breath, wiping her cheeks. “At least he’s alive,” She mutters to herself.

 

The relief is short lived by Coran and Allura’s glum aura. “That,” Coran says quietly, “was not Lance.” 

 

As if to fend off her own onslaught of tears, Allura scrubs her eyes with her palms. “This is a sick tactic to lure the lions into his grasps.” Her tone is hardly above a whisper. “Feigning that Lance is desperately awaiting us to rescue him so that we fly straight into an ambush with our heads up our asses.” 

 

Pidge cleans her glasses off on her pants grimly, berating herself for not suspecting such. For all they knew, Lance was dead. There was no reassurance, there was nothing to prove otherwise. All they could hope was that we would be strong enough to endure for a bit longer. “Who…” She swallows down the lump throwing in her throat with a grimace. “Who wants to tell Keith?” 

 

No one speaks up. 

 

-

 

If Lance could feel after Haggar heals him, he’s sure the horizontal metal table would be stinging cold against his flesh.

 

Though, he knows Haggar never truly heals him. She just takes away enough that Lance can feel every little thing and not pass out from the pain. Lotor keeps him aware so that he recognizes everything happening to him. So that Lance’s mind is completely sentient to the torture. Sometimes, he wonders if maybe that’s why Lotor insists he talk with reckless abandon. To keep him conscious and a responsive recipient. 

 

Despite not being able to feel the table against his sweaty flesh, Lance gets a full body shudder rack him. He had tried desperately to keep track of the days, to try and feel telepathically somehow if it was light or dark outside. He wanted his eyesight back, Lance would never admit it, but this terrifies him. Having his senses ripped away from him, only able to feel the endless abuse of his already tender physical state. 

 

Every second feels like hopelessness that’s collapsing on him eagerly, prying open his chest and ripping his heart out to roast it on an open fire. That’s what Lotor’s presence feels like, so easily distinguishable that Lance tries to gasp, but it’s soundless. Lotor is fear in purest form trying to devour him completely, even if he can’t see or hear him. For a premature minute, he’s brought back to castle nights of listening to soothing oceans, sleep enveloping when a comfortable dark settles. Now, that seems so much like a dream that his concave stomach is twisting in knots; he smiles around the ball gag when he pictures Hunk vomiting in the elevator.

 

Moments pass in bleak suffering and Lance couldn't move his limbs even in they weren't bound to the table in a humiliating position. After being ran through the rack every day for what Lance could only assume was two months, his ligaments have been permanently torn, all his joints loose and dislocated and every shift is met with a chorus of crackling from beneath his (physically, not metaphorically) ripped muscles and colorless flesh. Unable to even speak, ramble and blabber uselessly to soothe his loud, loud mind, Lance wants to struggle. Panic is digging claws into his cold skin and dragging until he’s shreds, sanity is getting more difficult to sling to. 

 

Lance wants to die, he really does, but they won’t even let him have that much. 

 

As for position, his wrists are bound above his head to the metal table, thighs strapped to calves and spread by some sort of leather rope that links to the ceiling. Armor having been stripped long ago and leaving only the dark, skin tight underskirts, his clothing was beginning to develop quite the stench. It didn’t help that the blue Paladin hadn’t been allowed to bathe since being captured, a mix of sweat, saliva, and urine was ground into the clothing. 

 

He hadn’t been fed yet, a feat he found incredible if his predictions were correct and it had been two entire months since he’d been captured, so fecal matter hadn’t added to the array just yet. Perhaps it was apart of Haggar keeping him alive and responsive - making sure his stomach felt like it was devouring itself, yet being held just far enough from starvation that he continued this life. His pondering is sawed short when a cold hand suddenly makes contact with the barely existent bulge of his stomach. He flinches upon contact, only coming to regret his body’s natural reaction as his ruined limbs are jostled. He bites down hard on the ball gag, swearing that one of his teeth cracks against the firm surface of it. 

 

Fingers, curious and skilled, crawl a trail up to his ribs, stroking over the dips and edges of all too prominent bones. Their exploration leads them to an equally bony chest plate (skin stretched so tight, suctioned so hard against bone that no detail was left to mind) before settling against Lance’s adam’s apple. Lotor’s hand cups his throat for a moment, as if thinking about his next move, as if he were examining Lance’s neck with the same observant and judgemental gaze one would use when determining product quality. The scrutiny makes Lance wince and if his joints wouldn’t crumble in pain, he would’ve physically recoiled. 

 

Slowly, Lotor begins removing the dressings and garmets on Lance’s face, starting with the sound blocking headphones. Noises start bubbling back into perspective, starting with the sound of his own breathing. Steady, when it should be labored from the frightened anticipation of what’s to come of him. Perhaps he’s grown so used to the torture that he can’t even be scared anymore. That alone is more terrifying than anything. 

 

Then, it’s that same scaly voice slithering into Lance’s ear canals like a serpent. 

 

“... love to move onto to the more excruciating things I have planned for you, but I feel that it’s just such a shame that I haven’t marred your pretty flesh yet. Well. It was pretty before the combination of lacking your normal skincare routine and lacking the artificial light of the castle made you look like a corpse. But, oh well, flesh is flesh. And I’d prefer for both of us to see it abused before… oh, I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise!” Knobby fingers are slowly undoing the rag from Lance’s eyes and he braces himself for the onslaught of light after two months of being completely blinded by the cloth. 

 

Though, he finds there’s only a slight difference. He’s in the same gray cell from the beginning of his stay, just in a different position. Lotor’s face is just as smug, if a little less monstrous than Lance remembers it. He can already feel his memory changing and making the scary things scarier, the lovely things lovelier. He hopes his image of his team isn’t too far impaired. He wouldn’t want to be so shocked when he sees them again. If he does see them again, that is. 

 

Really, maybe this is more a blessing than a burden for them. So easily Lance could be replaced. He ponders this as Lotor removes the ball gag from his mouth, a steady flow of drool coating his chin and cheeks. He can imagine Coran piloting the blue lion expertly. They never needed him. Maybe he’s doomed to an eternity in Lotor’s grasp and all his teammates can bring themselves to do is laugh at the situation. Keith would probably be laughing the hardest. 

 

His chest aches and he whimpers, dry and dying in his throat. Cracking lips are unable to form words from hours, maybe days of being unable to exercise the pink muscle in his mouth, and dehydration is making him weak. They’d had the smallest amount of kindness in their hearts to allow him regular flows of water - not since he’d been gagged though, however long ago that was. He was parched. His mouth was dry and it hurt to move it. Lance halfway expected a creaking sound akin to the sound of metal grinding metal when he tentatively moved his jaw in a circular motion. Just to test the waters. It aches. He lets his mouth fall open and slack instead. 

 

Seizing the opportunity, Lotor grips insensitively at Lance’s hollowing cheeks and spits a fat wad of saliva into Lance’s mouth. The sad part is, he’s so desperate to relieve the sahara forming in that particular facial orifice, that he doesn’t try to spit it back out. He swishes it around with his tongue, swipes over his teeth and the insides of his cheeks with it, wets his gums and throat as he swallows it down. 

 

If Lance had any pride left, it would have been severely wounded at the sight of the Galra prince grinning ear to ear when the once semi-respectable blue Paladin drinks his spit. 

 

“Such a pliant little pup,” Lotor coo’s, stroking Lance’s considerably longer brown half-curls in what might’ve labeled affection in another context, “using his mouth so well. No time to admire your infinite beauty, young Paladin of blue, we are running on a schedule! After-all, I give your ‘friends’ maybe another couple of lariks before trying to rescue you.” 

 

Lance blinks owlishly, running through his memory to try and comprehend the Galran time measurements. Did… Did he just say the team would be here in a few  _ days?  _ He blinks the moisture from his eyes as they struggle to form tears. The mere thought of being rescued so soon (at all, really) threatens to make him cry. What he wouldn’t give to be anywhere other than here. 

 

He wants to go home. Not castle home, home home. With his Mama and Papa and his chaotic family, his nine brothers and sisters and his sixteen cousins and the beach, God, the beach. The ocean, calling him, the feel of his chest pressed against the smooth surface of a surfboard as he’s gently lulled along the waves, arms and legs hanging limply in the water. Ethereal combination of soft colors in a sunset cascading across the inviting orange sky, reflecting brilliant tendrils across the inky waves. Maybe he would be taken far enough that he’d never have to be here, in this place, again. 

 

In his mind, at least.

 

Deep down, Lance knows that even if he did escape this hellish place, he’d be shoved right back into the castle where Keith constantly reminds him that he’s just a cargo pilot and Hunk is his best friend but so easily pushes Lance away to instead indulge himself with more useful endeavors, where Pidge is a steady stream of undermining Lance’s less than genius thinking, further scrubbing salt into the wound of his own flaws and uselessness with her excellence and harsh words when he’s being so annoying, and he’s nothing but a pawn to the calculating princess, not a family member. 

 

Where Coran encourages a healthy amount of tomfoolery but often snaps at Lance to quit doing the only thing he knows how to do correctly and would so easily replace him. Where Shiro, God, Shiro who’s perfect at everything, built to lead and protect and be amazing beyond compare making Lance feel worthless with just one disappointed glance. He doesn’t deserve any of them, and he needs to get away from their perfection before he ruins it with his own expendable toxins. Lance, just a liability, just someone to fill the shell of the blue Paladin. Never destined for anything, much less to be great, just a convenient and annoying fucking cargo pilot.

 

With his family, he can feel like he is something. He can feel loved and equal because no one is perfect and he is needed there. He’s like a free family babysitter and he has worth in the bundle of his family. They would mourn if Lance passed. Right now, Lance isn’t even sure if the rest of the team is even blinking at his disappearance. 

 

He’s just a seventh wheel to them. The worst wheel to be. 

 

When Lance tunes back into reality, Lotor is talking as if he hadn’t noticed Lance was fading in and out. Though, it seems like he’s reached the end of his schpiel just as the Cuban teenager comes to. “Talk is useless, my dear pet!” Lotor taps the crown of Lance’s head enthusiastically as the heavy concrete door shifts open, revealing the same Galra soldier from the beginning. “Let’s, as you humans say it, ‘get this party started’!” 

 

The soldier begins to undo Lance’s straps and carelessly so; when Lance’s arms fall, he screeches in pain that throbs through his shoulders and back. The noises he makes when his legs are undone is unholy. He hardly notices when the soldier throws him over his shoulder, lost in Lance’s own qualms of excruciating burn pulsing through his thoroughly stretched limbs.

 

Next, he’s being lowered into a sitting position. Lance tries to get a look at the chair, but his neck is too stiff to look back far enough. Slowly, slowly, Lance’s bottom meets the chair. And if his screams from before were hard to listen to, it would be a surprise if anyone within a ten mile distance wasn’t spilling their insides from the sound now. Speed that Lance didn’t expect from just a girthy man has him bound completely to the chair before he can even impulsively struggle or jump. Maybe he might’ve been able before he was starved for two months and dried out for a week; yeah, his reflexes were a little slow at this point. 

 

Spikes are making quick work of the remnants of his clothes and burrowing into Lance’s flesh that clings to his bones. He tries to arch his back to relieve the pressure on his rear, but not only is a seat belt like strap keeping him from doing so, his spine is still sore from nearing being torn out of his body by an altered version of the rack. After all, Haggar never truly healed him.

 

He thinks the worst of it is probably his feet, that are bound to a pad of sharp, protruding spikes; if he pushed down, they could pierce completely through to the other side. The pain is white hot and screaming in his skull, so loud he’s not even sure if he’s screaming on the outside anymore. Soon enough though, Lotor is near, shushing him and sliding a heavy collar on his throat that makes Lance shut up real quick. Too loud, and the spikes on this one will tear into him further. 

 

“It’s okay, pup,” He says, voice carrying a demented sweetness that makes horribly salty tears run tracks down his grimy cheeks (covered in two months worth of drool, snot and dried sweat), “just speak softly to me. Tell me about how worthless you are to your team. Finish the story from where you left off, please.”

 

It’s strange to hear Lotor use manners when he’s literally just forced Lance into a torture chair covered in sharp to the touch spikes. Not directly, per se, but gave the command for someone else to. Someone else who makes direct eye contact with Lance and holds it for an uncomfortably long period of time before exiting. And, heart so heavy with everything he’s held in, he obeys. 

 

He’s a dog to Lotor and it’s a Pavlovian response. 

  
  
  



	5. did i make a mistake?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shiro has trouble baring the weight of the world and Lance is without after being brought to the breaking point.
> 
> VERY MAJOR TRIGGER WARNING K GUYS BE CAREFUL BAD SHIT AHEAD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao i might not post tomorrow bc i'll have family over and also bewarE MY CHILDREN 
> 
> can u tell that lance is my fav? :'> MY BROTHER'S INTO VOLTRON AND I WAS TRYING TO EXPLAIN TO HIM WHY I PUT LANCE THROUGH SO MUCH SUFFERING BUT HE JUST LOOKED AT ME LIKE I WAS CRAZY AND DEMENTED
> 
> LIKE YEAH HE'S SUPER NICE AND GOOD AND PURE AND DOESN'T DESERVE THIS BUT??? CHARACTER???? DEVELOPMENT??? AND??? GIVING HIM???? A PROPER???? BURDEN??? LIKE EVERYONE ELSE HAS A BURDEN TO CARRY (except hunk i think) 'CEPT FOR LANCE AND THAT MAKES HIM LESS DEEP AS A CHARACTER I THINK well there was that one episode where he thinks he's replaceable bUT I WANT MORE LANCE SUFFERING

Three months and oh God, the castle was so quiet with tension that not even Coran dared to break it. Pidge was currently at her work station that was piled high dishes and empty Hunk-spresso cups, circling every possible weak spot in Lotor’s massive ship. The bags were so deep and purple on her face that it looked as if she had aged forty years in just three months with Lance being captured.

And Shiro felt like such a failure.

He was out there that day, right alongside Lance, but too busy with the enemy to notice his own teammate being taken away, didn’t suspect a thing or ask basic questions when Lance didn’t exit the blue lion. If that wasn’t enough screw ups for one day, Shiro had led the princess’s attention away from the screen and completely discredited her worry, blown off her fears like troublesome and unwarranted suspicion. It seems like Shiro just continues to mess up, as of late.

Shiro was supposed to have natural born leader skills, but it seems like all that has abandoned him with Lance’s disappearance. He’d be lying through his teeth if he claimed to be holding his composure, instead of being a wreck with everyone else. All he wanted to do was protect his team, but it seems like in this time where they desperately need a support system, Shiro can offer nothing but add more heartache to the growing collection. He let his team witness their cheerful, flirtatious Paladin in such a distraught and horrifying sight that Shiro himself had trouble blinking back his tears. He didn’t even feel confident enough to inform one that it was just a trick until two days later. He was letting his entire team lose themselves. He was no leader and like slow progressing poison, a sluggish cancer, this _team_ was no team of his.

Slowly, they’re disconnecting themselves from each other. The black Paladin hates it with everything in his heart and soul that the team he’d been so eager to assist and nourish and bond with is dying out because Shiro wasn’t strong enough to keep them from doing so. He wasn’t strong enough to save Lance and he isn’t strong enough to save the rest of them from themselves, either.

Breathing a sigh through his nose, he forces a small smile anyway, eyes just as exhausted as everyone else’s. “Need me to take these to the kitchen?” He asks Pidge ( _who reminds him so much of his team that it’s a small dose of melancholy whenever he looks at her_ ), who mumbles something like an affirmative, along with, ‘ _more Hunk-spresso’_.

He obliges even though he knows three fourths of the green Paladin’s blood must be Altaen caffeine by now. He obliges because all he can offer is his compliance when he’s most of the reason Lance is gone and they’re all in ruins. All he can hope to do is keep the pieces in tack for someone else to put them back together. He’s not fit and he’s doubting whether he ever was.

The dishes are stacked so high that Shiro has a bit of trouble getting them all to the kitchen, where Hunk looks dead on his feet as he makes a Hunk-spresso of his own. Shiro feels bad asking him to make another one, but he knows he’ll just screw it up if he tries it himself (it happened numerous times before Shiro had given up) so he asks softly. Hunk hums in response, as if his vocal cords were too tired to form words and Shiro doesn’t blame him.

Lately, it seems like everyone’s body is working like this castle - exhausted and diverting all power to a primary task, one single goal. Instead of trying to wormhole, they’re all just trying to bring Lance home. The thought makes Shiro’s chest tighten as he begins hand washing the wishes, staring blankly ahead. If he had been a better leader, his team wouldn’t have to suffer so. The blame… doesn’t it fall on him? Wasn’t it _himself_ that made a mistake?

Despite having a state of the art dishwasher, Shiro prefers to handwash dishes. It reminds him of Earth and the smell of home and the feeling of hope, dish soap as his Mama dries while Shiro washes. She’s humming a familiar tune and he tries to hum along until they’re humming in harmony and then she bursts into laughter at her son’s concentration, not in washing the wishes, but at simply humming. She tells him to not try so hard, to loosen up, and bumps his hip with her own. They laugh, the dishes are forgotten and they _laugh,_ smiles cracking wide across similar faces and giggles are hysterically filling the tiny kitchen.

By the time the fond memory collapses to an end, Shiro is blinking tears from his eyes and the dishes are done. He doesn’t realize he’s crying until his vision is too blurry for him to distinguish anything other than warped colors, then clear again when a steady drip pings against the edge of the sink. His mouth hangs open in shock and it just keeps coming and he chokes - painfully from the way he sucks in air desperately to let out a sob he hardly muffles with his hand.

There’s a weight on his shoulders, crushing him until he crumbles, leaning over the sink.

The world is so heavy on his shoulder’s and he’s not strong enough, he isn’t _strong enough,_ he’ll never be strong enough to be a good leader for them, to carry everyone’s burdens so that they never have to struggle. It’s too much and now his chest feels like it’s being stepped on by an elephant because despite feigning steadiness to reassure his team, give them a support system to cling to, he’s just as destroyed as everyone else. He misses his home, his Mama, her tiny house and her warm smiles and gentle hugs and her accent that reminds him of something that feels purely like family and _God,_ he wants Lance to come back, for everyone to be okay, and to be able to become better for them.

Before Shiro can react, there’s a heat, enveloping him. Dainty brown hands curling around him and the cushion of a cheek resting against his back, the mumble of comforting words vibrating against his vertebrae. Even if it hurts to be seen in this weak state, it hurts so much more to feel like this and he lets himself be embraced. Soon enough, Allura’s gently turned him around and there’s tears dusting her own magnificent blue eyes. She’s tugged her bottom lip between her teeth and her browns are knit together as she grips Shiro’s broad shoulders.

“It’s not your fault,” The Altaen woman says in a tight, small voice that sounds like a squeak, “Shiro, it’s not your burden alone to carry.”

Hugging her feels like home, with the feeling of soft white hair brushing against his cheek, and her voice with her accent and her strong grip on him, as if she’s pulling him back from a bridge he was standing on the edge of, and the feeling of moisture soaking into his shirt where her face is buried. He finds he doesn’t mind at all when her snot and tears are smeared across his clothing when they’re entangled with each other and she’s peppering butterfly kisses across the underside of his jaw and his neck, not in a moment of intimacy, but a moment of comfort.

And maybe, it isn’t all his to carry.

After a few minutes have passed, she says in a tone like a whisper (that sends chills crawling done his spine), “Will you be okay, Shiro?”

Hands placed delicately on her lower back, now pulling away with the same delicacy, he responds quietly, “I think so… Th… Thank you, Princess Allura.” He inhales her scent once more before pulling away from her warmth completely. Though, it has served to make him not feel so cold. He wonders if everyone’s feeling cold, right now.

Upon returning to the control room, Pidge and Coran are bent over a map of the inside of Lotor’s ship, pointing and muttering. Coran’s twisting the ends of his mustache thoughtfully when he notices Shiro’s presence.

“Oh! How convenient. Shiro, why don’t you come over here and share your thoughts on the plan Pidge and I are concocting?” He gestures him over with an excited hand. He thinks, through it all, Coran has probably been the one to keep the most face, even if his usual brand of cheerfulness has been dampened considerably by Lance’s disappearance. He seemed so close to Lance, too.

Making his way over with meaningful strides (he feels refreshed, really) he glances down at the map to see a bunch of strange symbols and Altaen writing. He blinked, tilting his head. Pidge really hadn’t slacked on learning Altaen. That reminds him of his miniature discussion with Pidge earlier.

“Oh quiznaks!” He flushes, earning the gaze of the green Paladin. “I forgot all about your Hunk-spresso. I’m sorry.” Shiro’s surprised when a small smile paints her lips.

“Don’t stress, man. The Hunk man himself brought me one.” As if to prove that statement, she brings the drink to her lips and takes a sip. “Now, let’s get to explaining these plans, oh great leader.” Pidge pats his shoulder. He smiles. Before frowning, suddenly serious.

“Uh, can you answer one question before we get to the plan?”

Glancing at Coran, as if for approval, Pidge nods curiously.

“Just how close are we to bringing Lance ho - here. To the castle.” He catches himself before he makes the mistake of saying home. As much as they cared deeply about each other, this was not their home. Not to Shiro and certainly not to Lance, who missed Earth more than anyone.

Then, Pidge’s expression fades from piqued curiosity to something that resembles an uncanny combination of sadness and utter hopelessness that chases the feeling of warmth away. Shiro feels cold again when she looks like she’s about to break bad news but he stands up straight, steadies his face and braces himself for anything. In this moment of weakness among them, it is his own responsibility to be strong. He did it back home when his Father left them by choice, and he’ll do it now when his teammate was taken from them all forcefully.

“I’d have to say a couple of months, Shiro. Four more at the absolute most.” Quiet, as if to have deniability for later. Say that they just heard her wrong and their sharpshooter will be home in no time at all, a few days, maybe. But, this is the truth and no matter how much it hurts, the truth remains true.

It is true that at most, Lance will be fodder for Galra cruelty for seven months before they have a chance at rescue.

“Thank you, Pidge.”

He still feels cold, though.

-

Back in grade seven, Lance went through a phase with flowers.

He loved them, still doesn’t deny loving them ( _even if he was unable to see them much now that he’s in outer-fucking-space_ ) and was working in his Mama’s garden in all his spare time. His siblings often teased him for it, said that Lance only liked flowers and pretty things because he was gay ( _not true, he was bisexual and he liked flowers because flowers are the bomb_ ), but when he patted the soil and watched flowers sprout from seeds, he could tune their words out. It was a home outside his home, and in a way, the flowers picked him.

On the walk home from school with his sisters, the trees would shed their blossoms and they’d fall right into Lance’s hair, into the crevices of his clothes, almost completely avoiding his sisters. When he left the window open in his brothers and his’s room, petals would have blown in and worked themselves across every surface and every inch of floor. They’d all yell at him for it and yeah, Lance could it a little annoying and borderline creepy at first, but he came to enjoy it. They would dance around him in a mini tornado of petals when he spun in a circle near the trees and bushes.

Mama had told him he had the magic touch for gardening. “ _Miho, my garden has been dead all year! Then, you start to grow and it flourishes!_ ” She had kissed his forehead so lovingly, with such pride that his face glowed bright red. After that, he thought he would become a florist, sending everyone a little love in each bouquet, spending his days with his fingers in the dirt and inhaling the pollen in the air, watching the bees with cheery interest as they did their work, hovered around him for a short moment, and flew away. Though, as legend would have it, Lance was drawn once more to the stars, to the feeling of flight, even if he loved the ground he walked on, the ocean he swam in, and all of their inhabitants.

When he was accepted into Garrison (after vigorous studying and countless nights of worry and research), the garden was kept alive by the clumsy and good intentioned hands of his siblings. Every couple of months, they’d take a picture of everyone gathered around the garden, (dogs, cats, cousins, aunts, uncles and grandparents included) holding up the same beautiful banner that said in neat, decorated cursive “ _WE MISS YOU, LANCE”_ and sent it to him at Garrison. He never mentioned it, but he was so heart warmed by those pictures that he’d spend hours late at night just studying it and crying because he missed them too. He couldn’t wait to visit them.

The time here keeps passing but Lance can’t count it. After maybe another month, maybe a few weeks, maybe a fucking _year_ , he’s taken out of the chair and he’s been quarterly healed by Haggar again, back on the horizontal metal table, back to his original position, back to being gagged, blindfolded, and deafened. Maybe it’s been a few days, he can’t tell, but his mouth is getting dry again, the drool has stopped dribbling down his cheeks, and his smell has gotten worse. Mixed with the scent of dried blood now and he believes now is the time when the Galra are resting. Lotor hasn’t visited since he was taken out of the chair.

Lance flinches when something brushes his thigh - a hand, maybe? An object? He didn’t feel such an imposing presence, so it couldn’t be Lotor. For a moment, hope is evident and fluttering in his starved chest cavity, could it be his team finally rescuing him after such a long time? The feeling happens again, this time harder. He starts tossing his head back and forth, urging whichever one of them keeps touching him to hurry up and get him the _fuck out_. It hurts to move after being still for so long, but he wants out, he wants reassurance that he’s not worthless to those he cares about.

 _I can’t take this anymore, please,_ He’s urging silently with the muffled noises he makes behind the gag _, please, this is too much._

Instead of freeing him, whoever is touching him takes his cheeks in a harsh grip and places another hand on his thigh, gripping tight. Lance’s heart all but freezes in his chest as he pales (impossibly so, his light brown skin tone has all but faded to gray at this point) and every bone in his abused body tenses up. His cheeks are un-handed and the noise canceling headphones removed; the grip on his thigh remains.

“I know struggling only hurts you, so you’re shit out of luck,” A quiet, husk of a voice breathes maybe from directly in front of him. A hand slides to his other thigh and pushes - it triggers a series of crackling from his dislocated joints. Tears rush to Lance’s eyes and he cracks another tooth against the gag, willing his thoughts anywhere but the throbbing at his hips, his knees, his back, all around him. Flowers falling into his hair, pretty colors, oceans and stars and his family -

It all falls to shit when his pants are being slid down.

Panic, something he hasn’t felt in a while since Lotor was becoming a bit predictable, is wrapping an icy hand around his ribs and crushing him and he yells against the gag, but it does fucking nothing. _No, no, no, no, no, fuck no,_ Lance’s tears are unabashed and rolling across his cheeks, wetting his blindfold and snot is running down his upper lip, catching on the upturn and sliding down his cheeks.

“I’m stressed, pup,” The voice says as he’s making quick work of his disgusting boxers, “and a virus wiped out three fourths of our females a while ago, so I’m used to just stickin’ it in wherever,” Lance is tossing his head again as a zipper is being undone rattling his chains despite the teeth of pain that keep digging into the twist of his shoulders, elbows and wrists, “doesn’t make me a male mater, though.”

There’s a pressure against him and then pain, splitting him apart and Lance screams against the gag, his back arching straight up from the metal table, even if a rational part of him knows there isn’t an escape from this. Hands, soft (hairy?) with claws just like the spikes on that chair, are squeezing his thighs and oh God, he wants the headphones back, the sounds. The sounds are what’s drawing horrible wailing and strangled sobs from his chest, making him keen and scratch his fingers bloody and raw against his chains. Every grunt and complain about the stress of being Lotor’s second in command and goad of ‘ _feels good’_ , every reminder that this is real, that there is a person on the other end of those hands and that voice and that disgusting appendage destroying him in the worst way possible. Maybe if he couldn’t hear it, he could pretend it was fiction (like he tries and fails to pretend most of this is), but the sounds make it real and _upon him_ and he can’t, hecan’thecan’thecan’tfuckfuckfuck.

 _Let me die,_ Lance thinks as he’s dry heaving against the gag and his nose is leaking just as much as his eyes and he feels disgusting all over, _Let me die, please, what did I do to deserve this, what mistake did I make? Did I make a fucking mistake because I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, God, just let me die!_

It feels like years pass before Lance let’s go. Goes pliant and limb and numb. His head lulls to the side, against his shoulder, let’s the sounds, the fucking sounds, carry him to a warm, inviting abyss. _This is it,_ he thinks as the movements are getting more painful, clumsier and more reckless, _I will finally go insane. Maybe insanity will embrace me more than sanity ever did._

There’s a swell, huge and being forced into him ( _what THE FUCK is that,_ Lance thinks somewhere in a part of his mind where he cares) and the voice is urging him, “Take my knot, bitch” before a type of warmth that makes him impossibly cold fills him. His insides feel polluted and filthy. He hopes the next torture is being disemboweled. The swell deflates, the pressure and sharp pain is eased out, and it’s leaking out slowly. The sound of the satisfied hum makes Lance sick and he dry heaves again, the feeling of being used and open drains the last ounces of hope from him.

They are not coming for him. No one is coming for him. This is Lance’s new reality, his new fate, his new destiny, and his new eternity. There is no escape, there is no family or home or hope, there is no oceans or soft breezes or gentle sun kissing his skin, there are no stars and there is no blue Paladin named Lance and there is no Voltron, there is no Keith, there is no homemade, tasty summer meals, there is no warm sand and no caressing grass beneath his feet, there are no small, wiggling children hanging onto him, there is none of Mama’s kisses against his troubles forehead. There is no reassurance and no light. There is only here and them and fear. At least for Lance.

 

His pants and boxers are slipped back up his filthy thighs, over the blood and other liquids, his headphones are placed back on and he’s alone again. Left to face what had just happened. It’s on a constant loop in his brain, his mind is displaying the memory on repeat and Lance is reliving it over and over again. His head is so fucking loud and that fear from those thoughts are keeping him wide awake, vigilant and panicky, queasy even though he knows he can’t throw up something that isn’t there. It’s so loud, he wants to scratch it out, his chains rattle furiously as the desire to scratch out the thoughts until his hair is in bloody clumps smeared across the gray floor, wants to rip open his stomach until the putrid, acrid smell of viscera is all that fills his brain, his filthy innards would slink to the floor in a heap, he’d string out his large intestine and maybe these intrusive thoughts would be gone.

 

The pain of hunger gnawing against the hollow of his stomach and the ache of his mutilated joints, the soreness of his leaking, bloody cavity is secondary to the mental destruction ringing so loud in his ears, even if the noise canceling headphones were removed, he wouldn’t be able to hear a thing. Bondage to strong to escape from, Lance settles for slamming his head against the metal table until a sticky trickle runs down his head and his brain dances with warbled spots, finally preparing for shut down. When he rests his cranium, it’s slippery now, warm and slick.

  
For the first time, there are no flowers, for Lance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did u get my lil' pun at the end


	6. stitch by stitch, i tear apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coran has watched too many of his loved ones get taken away from him Lance thought the worst part was over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter's gonna be long and eventful so it'll take a couple days, maybe longer 
> 
> but yoooo this chapter was difficult to get out today because of my obsession with making it to 20,000 words (didn't even end up making it fuck) and also because like i really just want to write about lance recovering??? because rest assured lance gets rescued, he just has issues afterwards 
> 
> also thanks for this story being popular like lmao what??? (on an unrelated note i'm a slut for comments ;> )

Four months, three weeks and progress was picking up speed. Somehow, it didn't feel fast enough.

 

Having been born into a militant family, Coran got the displeasure of growing up around war and chaos. Though he was drawn to the life of such endeavors himself, it was never any less difficult to see someone he was related to that he held a deep regard for get hurt or killed. Three of his aunt's died in battle when defending an out of commission lion from a giant space hound that threatened to rip its mechanical body to shreds. His uncle was missing an eye and a leg from a faux call for help, a species that lured him into a trap and tried to blow up his entire crew.

 

When he was eight years old, his mother was captured and held for ransom. His mother was Allura’s grandfather’s second in command and as a price to get her back, they wanted the blue lion that his mother piloted. Instead of complying, they made a plan to bring her home. By Voltron had gotten there, the kidnappers had killed her. Coran still remembers the feeling of not knowing what to do or how to react, what to say, what to think. Of course, he’d grown up around death and heartache, but his mother felt immortal to him. A force that Coran could simply never be without.

 

It took him a while before he accepted that that was not the case with not just his mother, but with everybody. That death is inescapable and unavoidable, that it reaches them all eventually. So, from then on the thought of death had never plagued him with the same fear it had as a boy. Everyone comes to the end of their journey whether they're ready or not, Coran had accepted, death doesn't just take the bad ones.

 

Though, when he thinks about Lance dying, his heart jumps into his throat.

 

To him, Lance had been like the grandson he’d never been blessed with. Ten thousand years ago, his beloved and his two children (his daughter about to bare a son of her own) had been slaughtered with the rest of his race. Though, the pain of losing his family was still there, still evident and would be there for the rest of his days, Lance had served as a sort of… anti-irritant to keep the pain to a minimum. By no means a substitute, but a nice addiction that distracted him.

 

For a while, he thought maybe he would lose touch with death.

 

He was wrong.

 

Twisting the ends of his mustache as he examines the plans to help bring Lance back, he thinks about how Lance could already be dead and their efforts would be useless then. Thinking positively all the time simply isn’t possible and intrusive thoughts of Lance’s grim end keep worming into his skull. If Lotor had simply shown them a holographic image of Lance with a message played in Lance’s voice, then he could’ve been dead this whole time and none of them would’ve suspected a thing. Why else wouldn’t he have shown the real Lance?

 

“Do you…” Pidge’s small voice suddenly pops his bubble of thought. “Do you think this plan will even work?"

 

Oh. Here’s what he's best at! A healthy dose of reassurance to chase away that uncertainty. If they're not all confident that they’ll rescue Lance, then it definitely won’t happen. It all starts with believing in themselves. He just hopes that they believe in Lance’s ability to endure just as much. “Of course! This plan will _absolutely_ work, unless it doesn't! Lance will be home before you can say ‘Quiznaks’!”

 

Maybe it will. Maybe it won’t. There's just no telling with these types of things, but Coran at least has to instill the idea that they _can._

 

He checks the statuses on his list, scrolling through all of the things they needed to do before finally commencing with operation save Lance from Prince Lotor. The repairs were nearly complete. All healing pods were operational, as were the controls systems and the defense systems. The offense drones were finished and expertly repaired, their helmets and armor were all upgraded. Now at that’s left to do is cook up something strong enough to catch Prince Lotor’s gigantic armada in unawares.

 

Shiro examines it with observing eyes. “So if Pidge and I enter here,” He points to the main ducts, “we’ll have to take out the filtration system manually from there?”

 

Coran nods enthusiastically. “Yeah, just about! Be careful, though, they have state of the art filtering, a super heated iron wire fence that’ll burn right through ya’, armor and all. Though, if Pidge is correct, there’s one cold spot that she can carefully crawl through to shut it down.”

 

Pidge nods along. “And like we mentioned before, this is a stealth mission, so we’re trying to avoid as much confrontation as possible. We’ll take a minipod to the underbelly of Lotor’s main ship, relying mostly on the minipod’s ability to camoflauge itself. From there, we’ll be close enough to where Lance is being held that there should only be a few, if any, guards to take out. The rest of the team will remain within in a far enough distance that Lotor’s systems won’t go into defense mode. If Shiro and I aren’t out within forty five minutes, Keith and Hunk will be free to use their lions as needed. Do not engage if you don’t have to.”

 

It seems like the green Paladin is looking directly at the red Paladin as she says those last few words. With good reason as Keith has been known to fly off on his own as he sees fit, even if it essentially throws the rest of them into panic and chaos and stuffs their plan right into the garbage can. There are times, of course, where this is a good thing. Coran thinks it’s healthy to have a moderate amount of rebellion to throw off the balance. Though, this is an operation that must be carried out step by step, or they risk losing their one open door to Lance.

 

All the Altaen man can hope is that Lotor’s variables didn’t include them sticking to a stealth plan.

 

Even if they can talk blasphemy about Lotor in anyway they wish, Lotor is extremely smart, manipulative, and picks out the opponents weakness through weeks of observing them. That’s one thing that Allura had pointedly left out when explaining her ties to Prince Lotor and his ties to the Galra throne. Is that Lotor had to have been watching them for quite some time to at last take action in kidnapping not the black Paladin, but the blue one. He had to have drawn enough connections that he witnessed just how Lance had brought them together and kept them cool, how he seemed to be the glue that formed bonds between them. Neutral ground for the team, if you will.

 

Yes, Shiro was their leader and Pidge was their technologically gifted genius, Hunk knew everything there was to know about biology and mechanics, Keith was a very talented pilot with a very hard head to match his strength and fearlessness, but Lance kept them all from letting their priorities consume them. He kept the Paladin’s human and he gave the Altaen’s the feeling of being apart of a family again. He truly was extraordinary, even if he seemed to not believe this most of the time.

 

For quite some time, Coran’s noticed Lance’s malcontent with himself. After all, the duty of a strategist to to observe others and notice the small things that could make a plan crash and burn. This, somehow, felt like the string that tied them together. While others glanced other the expressions the blue Paladin would sometimes make when he knew no one was looking, Coran’s peripheral’s lingered. When Lance’s boisterous voice did not ring loud, while the others appreciated the peace, Coran worried in the quiet. He noticed, even if Lance thinks he did not.

 

Small stuff helped. Giving the boy a pat on the shoulder or asking him to talk about his days on Earth. Inviting him to give a helping hand in the kitchen, to watch his blue eyes light up in hysterics when Coran accidentally blew up the meal. Asking him to explain the ins and outs of Earth flirting. Lance loved to talk, Coran thought, but when he gets like that, he believes no one wants to listen.

 

“So, what, we’ll rescue Lance and then blow kisses goodbye to the Galra who stole him away from me in the first place?” Keith speaks up for the first time since the beginning of the informal meeting. Shiro’s eyes flicker and Coran knows that Keith is very unhappy about not attacking in retaliation. With one of them out of commission, they simply cannot.

 

With a sigh, the black Paladin responds in a comforting voice. “I know you’re upset about Lance being kidnapped, but that doesn’t mean we’re ready to take on Lotor’s entire fleet. Whether or not you’re willing to accept it, they would crush us in the blink of an eye and we need to focus on getting Lance back before we can worry about taking them on again.”

 

Slowly slinking back in his chair, he figures it’s best to let this sort itself out. Ever since the video call with Lotor, Keith has been bumping heads with everyone more than usual. Shiro, especially,  and Coran’s chest aches a little, he knows death a little better, when he thinks of the fact that it would be Lance and Keith bickering in any other situation. Like they had with relentlessness the day they captured Lance.

 

Instead out biting out more spiteful arguments, Keith crosses his arms across his chest. “At… At least let me go with you to get him back.” He’s looking at the ground with a pink hue in his cheeks. “Please… I- I can’t feel helpless again!”

 

Shiro, unsurprisingly, is taken aback. They all are. The red Paladin isn’t exactly known for displaying such a vulnerable and emotionally fragile side of himself, even if such difficult situations arise. There’s a moment of silence that dangles over them like a glass chandelier that’s rocking back and forth above the team, waiting for the right time to snap and fall, spraying pieces of glass ten feet out in every direction.

 

It feels like if anyone were to disturb it, the rest of them would explode.

 

Lance had always been a disturber of the peace, but it seemed like someone else had to take his place in letting them all relax for now. Don’t worry, Coran thinks, he will return to us no matter what.

 

“Well, I’d say how’s about all three of ya’ go!” He bellows, placing his hands on his hips and puffing out his chest proudly. “But, with this plan, we can’t risk only having one Paladin here to defend the castle! Even if our defenses are back up, I wouldn’t want to see the castle go out of commission again. We’ll need her in tip top shape for returning to stop Lotor’s army! We’ll need Lance in tip top shape, too.” Coran smiles at Keith. “Which is why I think Keith would be perfect to help Lance make it to full recovery! Of course, the rest of us would help too, he’s our teammate after all, but I think it’d do both of you good if you were to be - “

 

“Yes!” Keith says, surprising Coran incredulously. His face is stealed, jaw squared and posture sturdy as he looks Coran directly in the eyes. The others still look stunned from his earlier display. He takes this into consideration and relaxes a bit, the strange seriousness ebbing away. “I - I’d enjoy being able to help Lance out. Thank you.” The red Paladin’s words fade into a mumble as he makes himself smaller.

 

A smile builds on Coran’s lips. It’s infectious, spreading to Allura, to Shiro, to Pidge, to Hunk, to Keith. “We’re finally bring Lance back,” Allura breathes with glee, “it took us a while, but we’re ready to begin the rescue mission. We wormhole at dawn.”

 

_I refuse to lose another grandson._

 

-

 

There’s sweat beading on his brow, glistening on his neck and cheeks, painting the bridge of his nose. Lance can’t hear the crackle, can’t see the iron glowing and burning through his clothes, can’t taste the heat consuming the vicinity of the small space, but he can feel it. It starts with pin-prickles against his back like a hoard of small bites biting him until it started a flood of sweat across his entire body. It’s dripping off of his face and arms. Lance can imagine his sweat sizzling when he touches hot iron.

 

It’s suffocating all around him and oxygen is quickly escaping with every labored breath of thick, humid air. It’s getting harder to breathe and he feels like he’s dying, he really does, but he knows they’d never let him die. Most of his blood is magic from just how much they’d brought him back from that edge he desperately wants to jump off of. Wants to stop feeling filthy, wants to stop feeling hopeless and worthless, wants to be gone already.

 

The worst thing about this entire situation is his own thoughts. Figuring things out and continuously amplifying the pain, manipulating itself to feel like it’s burning alive, his skin is being roasted on his flesh. Which, it makes sense, the conclusion he’s come to. If Lotor deprives him of all of his senses except except touch, his brain will register the feeling of being cooked as much worse than it actually is. Not that being heated up in a cramped iron tube was something pleasant to begin with.

 

Quickly, it’s becoming too much as his hair is gluing itself to his scalp with sweat that soaks his clothes and blindfold, stings his pinched closed eyes. It feels like every inhale is about as useful as constantly exhaling, and he’s trying to position himself so that the iron isn’t pressed to his bare skin, but with his ligaments still destroyed from months of daily rack torture, it’s a useless effort. Not to mention bare skin is quickly becoming the only thing left as his cotton clothes are being singed right off his flesh.

 

Growing up in a small household with nine siblings, right splat in the middle at child number five, it was hard to get attention. Lance believes that’s how he became so obnoxious and loudmouthed, over-confident and only good for annoying the people he loves right out of his life. Every day was a competition to earn recognition, strive to get so many achievements, demand attention with such eagerness and pride that he couldn’t possibly be refused.

 

Often times, Lance would be the epicenter of his siblings spite because of this. They didn’t like that Lance could walk into a room filled with any type of people and instantly demand and receive the entirety of their attention. He could hold it all too, he was entertaining and a people pleaser even from a young age, never wanting to be alone, never wanting to be quiet. For a while, he was confident. It was chased away when he entered middle school and instead of being sociable and friendly, he was an annoying nerd.

 

Middle school was some of the most awkward years of his life, he thinks as it feels like his skin is liquidating and dripping off his bones, the years where he was at his lowest point with his self esteem. He was tall and skinny, gangly, clumsy and laughably untalented at sports. His skin broke out and it was much more difficult to get people to like him. He felt obligated to hold it all in since he was regarded as a class clown type character and it made him feel guilty to have others worry about him. He didn’t feel like he was worth it. He felt useless and unspecial, with no true talent or natural skills.

 

No matter what it was, Lance always had to try to achieve what he wanted. Studied vigorously to become the smartest of his peers. Relentlessly practiced his sweet talking skills to be noticed by teachers and students alike. Not much has changed since then except for maybe his skin care routine. He’s still trying and Keith is still better in every form of the word. And he still feels like nothing.

 

It’s not until he’s inches away from passing out from heat exhaustion that the iron begins to cool down. The tube like containment unit is popped open and Lance is retrieved by hands that aren’t Lotor’s - he knows whose they are, but tries not to think about it. It’s happened more times than he can count now and Lance still somehow has the ability to feel more and more disgusted with himself progressively. If he was nothing before, he was even less than that now.

 

The surface of the table he’s being strapped down on feels ice cold to his flaming skin. Almost to the point of pain and he groans, low in his throat and thrashes his head, the only part of him that was the least affected by the rack. He’s thirsty and hungry and prays for death. His family was always so religious, forcing Lance and the rest of his sibling’s and younger relatives to church every sunday morning. Lance used to be blindly religious up until he was seven, when his little cousin died from drowning in the bathtub.

 

He questioned God’s motives then _. “If God is all powerful, then why does he let people suffer and die for no good reason?!”_ He had cried into his Tio’s lap when awoken for church the following Sunday. _“If God is even real, then he can’t possibly be perfect if he let Hayden die!”_ No one made Lance go to church after that. Those days would be spent gardening or studying, maybe even playing in the ocean if a neighbor was willing to go with him. His family took the risk of drowning very seriously after that.

 

So, Lance’s is not surprised when he doesn’t die. God was never on good terms with Lance anyway.

 

His senses flood back, always starting with his hearing. Sounds bleed into comprehension and it’s Lotor’s voice that’s spurring him further to madness, though it’s not half as bad as the other voice. The voice that’s complaining while Lance’s is wishing for the sweet embrace of a bitter and premature end. Then, the gag, covered in Lance’s saliva, is taken out with scarily gentle fingers. His jaw falls open and slack. He doesn’t mind when saliva that isn't his fills it.

 

“Finally, we’ve made it to the main event,” Lotor purrs, stroking Lance’s filthy cheek as skilled appendages loosen the knot on the back of Lance’s blindfold at a maddening pace, purposely brushing the scabbed over wound on the back of his head from putting himself to sleep after a sinful night session. “You’ve always had such pretty eyes, pup. I’m jealous.”

 

At the praise, he raises his eyebrows before the blindfold is lifted completely and the light is so bright he whimpers and tries to pinch his lids closed, but Lotor’s prying them open until the pinks of his inner lids are exposed. His mouth tries to form words but it’s been maybe a couple weeks, maybe a month since the gag has been taken out and everything is numb. His tongue is a useless muscle in a useless orifice. For a while, Lotor just stares at him with the same predatory gaze he had pined Lance with that first day he was brought here.

 

It’s not until Lance’s eyeballs begin to water up that a crack splits his smug face. “Ah, well I guess we should proceed then? I’m giddy with excitement!”

 

Another Galra is holding his eyes open while Lotor wields a wand looking device with crystals sprinkled over a baseball shaped tip. It makes a sound like water sloshing in someone’s stomach when Lotor rattles in back and forth. It shouldn’t be half as unsettling as most of the devices the prince has presented him with, but for some reason it does and more. Still, he finds himself a little unsuspecting when the baseball shaped side is right at eye level and those green and yellow crystals are staring straight at him.

 

Green and yellow. Green lion and yellow lion. Who are they? Pidge is a girl. Hunk is his best friend. They pilot the green and yellow lion. They don’t care about him and he’ll never see them again, just like everyone else. Lance used to pilot the blue lion. He used to be a Paladin of Voltron. Not anymore. Nothing existed outside of torture and Lotor and him.

 

Slowly, repetitively, Lotor begins swinging the wand back and forth in front of Lance’s eyes. “Talk, pup.” He says gently as Lance follows the movements with drying eyes. “Tell me about beautiful things you’d seen with such beautiful eyes.”

 

That should have triggered something like a warning, but Lance isn’t smart. He’s stupid and oblivious and doesn’t notice that he’s being bad company until he’s left completely alone again, crying in a supply closet like in seventh grade. So, it doesn’t. The first thing that comes to his mind is Keith, so that’s what he talks about as he studies the crystals on the wand, talking about Keith’s oddly colored eyes that’s shape speak of foreign roots, Keith’s eyelashes that are long and dark. Keith’s entire face is pretty, really, with perfect red lips and perfect pale cheeks and an effortlessly perfect complexion, and cheekbones that could fucking cut glass, a perfect jawline and a perfect body.

 

Soon enough, he’s so entranced with talking about all the ways Keith is beautiful, he doesn’t notice the crystals shivering until the rocking stops and his focus trains on them again. They’re shuddering and quivering, almost like they’re cold, until stilling again. Then, they’re getting closer, dripping, Lance realizes with mounting terror, they’re liquidating and melting out of the baseball like end. Right into his eyes.

 

It’s such a thick liquid and a slow process that it seems like it’s hours of Lance trying and failing to struggle out of the grip the soldier has on his eyelids before the first sensation of fire tearing through his sockets meets him. Maybe it would be worse if he couldn’t hear or scream because it would amplify the pain, but the sizzling and popping sounds are really what make him keen. His limbs are all jerking despite the pain a single flinch causes and then the liquid reaches the other eye.

 

All the while, his vision is beginning to deteriorate and sobs are wracking his chest, escaping his throat and he coughs up a smear of blood that does little more but stain his lips and go right back down his throat. Lance keeps picturing the feeling of having his senses taken and can’t help but wondering if his sight is just the first of the rest that they’ll take away for permanent keep. He starts pleading, too, because it’s a slow, agonizing type of burn that makes his skull furious with a buzzing like there’s a hoard of bees trapped in his head.

 

Imagine getting soap in your eye, except it’s acidic and it’s slowly making you go blind. Now you have a good mental image of what Lance is screaming his throat bloody about as Lotor laughs. He laughs and he laughs and soon enough, once his vocal cords have rubbed themselves raw, Lance chuckles through his tears. It’s so ironic, isn’t it? Isn’t that why Lotor chose to take his sight away.

 

“Guess you can’t call me sharpshooter anymore!” Lance says before laughing, hard, hysterics falling from his mouth with such urgency that he’s shaking and as the last of his sight is burnt away, he just keeps laughing. Laughing so that maybe he’ll speed up the feeling of being torn apart, of coming undone, of unraveling like a ball of yarn.

 

“And how did I make it out of that iron oven of hell?” He’ll never see Lotor’s face again, or the gray box he’s living in, or Keith, but he wasn’t ever going to see him again anyway. “I should be cooked like a burnt thanksgiving turkey, but I’m still as pasty as an organic glue stick!” The laughter hurts his own ears as he buries his grin in his shoulder, thinking about how he’ll never see Hunk vomiting again and he’ll never see Pidge pout about Lance’s antics. “You guys are relentless! If you’d let me rot, I’d have been dead the first time you tried to rip my limbs out and pull my spine out of my body!”

 

Chuckles and giggles are squashed by the sound of a heavy door closing and Lance is alone again. “Dang, okay, guess you Galra can’t take a joke! That’s alright, I know a special someone will be back for a bit of stress relief tonight! While we’re on the subject, Lotor baby, stop working your right hand man into sexual frustration, my ass is suffering here!” His blind eyes are blinking the moisture away and scanning the ceiling only to see nothing, no ceiling, nothing.

 

“Take away my eyesight for the sake of irony! That’s fair, that’s fair, what’s next?” His chest is stuttering because everything is dark and white, but simultaneously, everything is nothing. He thinks about the scars over Shiro’s proud, father like expression and Allura’s gentle blue eyes always narrowing playfully when Lance flirts with her. Coran’s mustache twisting and funny hand gestures and his Mama’s dimples and then a different type of pain settles in. Tugging at his gut. He curses under his breath, whispering to himself.

 

How did it get this way? Where did he go wrong, how did he fuck up so badly that this was now his life? That he was blinded, raped, and his physical state was fucked to Earth and back. Even if he had a chance of escaping, Lance could guess he’d probably never walk again and that his sight was permanently gone, even if he had a chance of escaping, he was nothing and no one really liked him. If he was useless before, he was less than that now. When his vision is gone and his limbs all impaired, only good for being tortured and used for the entertainment and pleasure of others. Only good for others to pick apart piece by piece, to be shattered and abused. Maybe this was the only way he could ever be worth something. Everyone needs to blow off a little steam now and then, right? Lance is the perfect outlet.

 

In fact, Lance is difficult not to want to chain up and torture. He’s loud, obnoxious, rude, snarky, cocky, arrogant, foul-mouthed, absentminded, an all around insufferable person to tolerate. In fact, he’s forever grateful for his team being able to stand him this long and he’s glad he’s finally been taken off their hands and put to use elsewhere. He’s never been good enough to them and he never will be. And he’ll never have the chance to prove himself not only because he’ll be here for the rest of his life (that is, until Lotor and the sexually pent up second in command grow bored of him like Lance has found all people inevitably do) but because he never had a chance to do so in the first place.

 

With the philosophy his Mama had used so often ( _“How can you expect others to love you if you don’t love yourself?_ ”), Lance is justified in his own thoughts. If Lance doesn’t even like himself, how can he expect other people to even slightly enjoy his presence? Made no sense at all! If Lance thought he was nothing, then others must think so as well. Correct in their thinking. Lance is nothing. Lance is at the bottom of the metaphorical barrel and rotting away.

 

Days pass. There’s not a sound except for his own breathing and whispering, the occasional symphony of cracks when he shifts his joints. The smell of himself makes his eyes water. The burnt sweat and clothes, mixed with Galra cum and his own blood, whatever keeps leaking out of his eyes (something other than tears, thick and rolling inwards along the sides of his nose), urine that runs down his thighs and freezes the remnants of his pants to his legs. It’s so bad that it’s beginning to give him a headache. Not even the guard has visited him to humor Lance with fucking him until his entire backside is numb.

 

Banging his head on the table, he hums the tune to a song his Papa had blasted in the house so often. Lance claimed to hate the song but after years of growing up around it, he had adjusted to it, even enjoyed it a little, nodding his head when no one was looking. Then, the song they played at his older sister’s dance recital, where Lance had watched with big eyes, wondering how his bitchy, cranky older sister could move so fluently with such beauty. After some time, all the songs reminding him of his childhood and his life before here mold into one, notes clashing against notes until it’s deafening and he can’t sleep.

 

Blind eyes wide open and staring into oblivion. Like space, except space is infinite and his eyesight is nonexistent. It’s not exactly the same as just having his eyes closed. It’s like… a blanket over his eyes and it’s no color, but every color at the same time. Lance can’t help but not want to go to sleep, not wanting to risk seeing familiar faces in his dreams with a sight he doesn’t have anymore, faces he’ll never see in real life again, that he would never be able to see again even if he still had his sight. Because truly, Lance believes in his heart that no one will come for him and that no one cares that he’s gone. When months were confused with weeks and weeks with years, Lance knew that no one wanted him anymore. That he’d outstayed his welcome and now he paid the price of forcing himself into a position he didn’t deserve, into the seat of the blue Paladin.

 

Really, if anyone came to rescue him at this point they’d recoil immediately at the sight of him and Lance wouldn’t even blame them. He grimaces at the sight of himself (the mental image of the last time he’s seen himself, that is), skin and bones with skin that’s drained of color, most of his clothes burnt off, covered in liquids that make him smell worse than a sewer, snot, tears, blood and whatever’s leaking out of his eyes smeared across his face, Lance literally has frozen fucking piss on his leg. He hates to admit it, but he’s not exactly model-worthy at the moment.

 

More hours pass and Lance is feeling a drip on his forehead and the temperature drops lower, effectively freezing all of the other liquids he’s excreting to his body. His underarm hair is frozen together from the sweat that had collected when he was hydrated enough to sweat. The tangled, dirty hair on his head has icicles in it too from the blood and sweat. Whatever was leaking out of his eyes has mixed with his tears and frozen his eyelids shut. Not that it makes much of a difference anyway. Lance keeps his mouth open so that it doesn’t freeze shut too.

 

If he wasn’t cold enough, his skin is stuck to the metal table and frostbite is beginning to nibble at his fingers and toes. The meat freezer like temperature is making every breath Lance breathes in like winter. He always hated winter back on Earth, but had ultimately mourned the loss of it on the ship. He’d mourned the loss of many of Earth’s wonders. The way the night’s distinguished from the days and the rain, the ocean, the grass, the sand, the feeling of living on Earth. Lance appreciated space. He never wanted to live there.

 

It occurs to him that the cold is going to make his begin to hallucinate soon and maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. Sweet hallucinations would cradle him in warm arms before he met his end and he would finally be released from the frostbite eating him and his frozen eyelids depriving him of glancing blindly around the metal box. The dripping increases and Lance keeps his mouth open to catch some of it, wet his lips and the inside of his cheeks. He wonders when the cold will finish off his limbs and attack his vital organs instead.

 

Maybe Lotor was only ever interested in torturing him to lure the other Paladin’s right into his grasp, but then was shocked and angered when he found they didn’t give a rat’s ass about Lance. He wants to laugh because that was a great way to give a big ‘fuck-you’ to Lotor. “You thought I’d be the perfect bait for them, but they in fact have probably found another person to fill my shoes and are defending the universe with the new and improved Voltron.” Lance says in a scratchy voice that hurts him to speak in. Everything ebbs away eventually. The pain, the sadness, the glee, the anger. Everything.

 

He’s never felt this empty before. This undying feeling of hopelessness sucks him dry. He’s so dehydrated, only nourished by the drips of water leaking through the cracks in the ceiling, that he can't even cry as his flesh sings with pain. Lance hurts. Lance hurts and no one is coming to save him.

  
  



	7. tell me, where have you been?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith can’t seem to stop worrying and Lance let’s himself go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just remembered my subtle meme insert in chapter four and i can't stop cackling at my own bad word play
> 
> I THINK I HAVE THE END OF THIS FIGURED OUT N STUFF BUT IT'S NOT COMPLETELY FLESHED OUT??? i mean, i had an idea for the ending when i started this, but i thought it was kind of a crappy ending that was too sad and depressing, but i want to go a different route. rest assured, there will be plenty of future suffering, but it might get better :>
> 
> school's starting back up so I might be able to churn out a chapter every three days or so, I'll try to be as consistent as I can but testing's gonna start soon and i'm gonna have to work my ass of for them good grades. also, thank you all for your wonderful comments they warm my heart, sorry if i didn't respond to yours, it probably just meant that i'm too awkward of a human being to conjugate a proper response in english, so i've resorted to blushing furiously and mumbling indecipherable jumbles of nonsensical phrases
> 
> oKAY I'M RAMBLING, BUT WITHOUT FURTHER ADO, SOME STUFF :>>>>>>>>

In his life, there's been few people who ever challenge him.

 

Most of them had claimed that Keith was simply intimidating to talk to, much less to compete with, and it was understandable since Keith wasn't exactly the most approachable of people. This had always served the red Paladin well because he almost enjoyed isolation, even if it became a bit lonely at times. As far as he was concerned, it was better to do something right yourself than to let others get involved and risk them messing up. It wasn't a matter of Keith being ‘better’ than other people. It was a matter of wanting to carry out a task independently and correctly.

 

Which is most of the reason Lance had been like a bowling ball crashing into the organized bowling pins of his life, a disturber of the peace, if you will. When he suddenly claims this grudge against Keith (when Keith doesn't even remember this guy’s name) and proclaims that they're enemies, his heart is having trouble beating and his cheeks are heating up. He tries to tell himself it's from anger at this unskilled, talentless smug bastard thinking that he's even half of what Keith is, which apparently qualifies as enough to deem himself worthy of engaging in some sort of competition with him.

 

Of course, it _wasn’t_ , but another thing Keith’s good at (aside from shutting out others) is ignoring the more vulnerable feelings he has. Especially if those feelings involve pining after a flirtatious, Cuban teenaged toddler with eyes that are too blue for Keith to be comfortable looking directly into them. (Maybe he’ll drown in them.) There’s the occasional moments where he slips up, praises Lance when he looks like his class clown composure is about to slip (few and far between), occasionally pats him on the shoulder (if just to _touch him_ , God he wants to touch Lance) and days before Lance was kidnapped when he pressed his lips the edge of his pink mouth before promptly sprinting out of his room and seeking refuge in Red.

 

After that, the feelings felt all too real for him. He tried to replace the soft moments with harsh ones, avoided praise, avoided contact, avoided speaking calmly with Lance. He’d say something to trigger the other Paladin’s impulsive personality, adding fuel to the flame, and so their primal dance resumed. Except, it didn't. Lance would just… ignore him.

 

 _That's not right,_ he thinks as his heart fucking turns itself inside out at the sight of Lance’s cold shoulder, _that’s not Lance, that's not right._

 

The only reaction he’d gotten out of Lance in days was in the heat of the mission and even then, Keith could tell the bickering was just for face. It seemed that throughout their months together in this team, Keith had grown accustomed to Lance’s arguing and could tell when his heart really wasn't into it. It was cruel and ironic that while he could tell just fine when Lance wanted to pick a fight with him, he couldn't help when Lance was on the verge of tears for the life of him.

 

( _Keith had wanted to change that, but was it too late?)_

 

Careful beeping of the radar is breaking Keith out of his tangle of thoughts. Pidge and Shiro’s heat signatures on the radar, Keith’s gaze flicks to Allura’s screen to see through Shiro’s visor. It looks as bland as every other Galra hallway, but somehow it makes Keith feel different. He thinks, _Is that the hallway they forced Lance down? Was he kicking and screaming and resisting with everything in him? Was he wondering where we all were?_

 

Really, it would make Keith a million times more comfortable to be on this mission himself, but he does take pride in the fact that he’ll be trusted with Lance’s future recovery. He just… hopes there’s not too much to recover. It’s selfish, but he hopes that Lance isn’t broken because Keith isn’t necessarily sure how to fix him if he is. In a perfect world, Lance would strut confidently back into the castle and say something akin to, “ _Did you miss me?”_ or “ _Quiznaks, felt like I was there forever!”_. This, of course, is outer space and nothing is perfect.

 

“Now, on your right you’ll encounter two drones. They're recording drones, so any faces they see and don't recognize will be sent immediately to the ship’s control room and they’ll go on lockdown. Take them out from behind.” Coran instructs, voice light and airy as always.

 

In Keith’s station, he’s biting his nails and wondering if Lance would hate him when he comes back. If Lance would hate all of them for not rescuing him sooner. If he’d be okay or if he’d be screaming and crying, accusing them of letting him get captured on purpose. This is really the most thinking Keith’s ever done while on a mission and he's not sure if it's because it's a stealth mission that he's not allowed to be apart of unless things take a turn for the worst or if it's because he's scared at the aspect of being able to see Lance for the first time in months. Almost five months, in fact.

 

“And you're sure you know exactly where Lance is?” Keith asks, doubt lingering in his voice. He couldn’t help it. After years of living on his own and getting on fine without others, his first instinct was to blame others before he blamed himself. It was a habit he thought he’d outgrown after months with his teammates, but bits and pieces of it still arose from time to time.

 

“As sure as we can get given the circumstances,” Pidge answers through her headset, “there’s only one unlabeled room in Lotor’s ship, which is where I’d assume he’d have Lance. He doesn’t have any other prisoners. I checked their data because I thought, yanno, like father like son, Lotor might have files. To my surprise, Lotor has a history of maintaining mostly peace and neutrality.” She goes quiet as Coran instructs them to turn another corner and two drones appear from another turn.

 

Keith startles when Coran speaks up louder this time, clutching his chest. The man was a great help and cheery to almost an irritating extent, but his volume was definitely something to adjust to. “The recording drones are right before you! Take them out before they can get a chance to scan you, and you’re home free! Lance’s predicted spot is right around the corner, where the bots are blocking.”

 

As if on cue, the gangly, metallic styled robots turn their heads and a red beam shoots out of both of their eyes’, which Pidge and Shiro quickly avoid, struggling to get behind them to take them out. The Robots simply rotate their heads to try and get a scan, but Pidge takes out one’s leg and it falls to the ground, where Pidge proceeds to crush it’s camera with her shoe. The red light blinks out.

 

The other is easily taken out when Shiro slices it down the middle with his hand and cocks his head at the mechanical remains. “That…” He starts before proceeding around the corner upon Coran’s instructions, Pidge following suit. “That seemed way too easy.”

 

“Don’t jinx it!” Hunk wheezes through his own headset. “It’s good that it’s easy, it makes for a quicker escape! The only reason it’s easy now is because we went through almost a month of planning and really, we’re all just trying to stay calm even though there’s a limit on how long we can keep the security camera’s down!” His voice is slowly climbing in pitch.

 

“Please, try and calm down. We don’t need to worry Shiro and Pidge while they’re on an important mission.” Allura says firmly before they come to a gray, concrete-style door. “This door requires a facial scan, that of which Pidge and Coran had figured out beforehand. Pidge, you know what to do.”

 

“Yup! This one’s all mine!” Pidge says confidently before a 3D hologram projects from her gauntlet. The small black screen beside the heavy door scans it before flashing green and when the door pops open, releasing a hiss of cold air that fogs the front of both Pidge’s and Shiro’s visors, Keith’s heart stops in his chest. There’s an anxious excitement, yet a feeling of dread at being able to see the blue Paladin for the first time in months, after Lance had been captured. It seems like it’s been years since he’s heard his voice and he’s on the edge of his seat, wishing he was there, wishing he’d never kissed him, wishing he’d never formed this tension with him before Lance was taken away.

 

Then, his faltering heart drops into the pit of his stomach when the fog clears.

 

A dead body covered in frost and icicles in an almost completely frozen room, yet the clothes on it are almost completely charred away. Strapped to a metal table and so still and gray in skintone that Keith’s stomach lurches. From the corner of his eye, Keith spots Hunk booking it to the bathroom and Coran’s holding his hand over his mouth in shock. Allura’s looks as though she’s seen a ghost. Keith thinks, That can’t be Lance. That isn’t him. Oh God, they got the room wrong.

 

And he wants to scream that it isn’t Lance when Shiro is checking his pulse, saying in a shaking voice, “He’s alive!” over the headset. It can’t be Lance. It’s been months since he’s seen him, but that can’t be possible.

 

He wants to start crying when there’s a steady drip of tears on the inside of Pidge’s visor and she chokes out, “His entire backside is f-frozen to the table! If we try and pull him off forcefully, we’ll rip off his s-skin.” Her sniffles tie his internal organs in multiple knots and then Hunk’s back from the bathroom, red faced and blotchy eyed.   


“You guys have to hurry up!” He says once he’s returned to his station. “You have ten Earth minutes until the security cameras are back up!”

 

Keith is pretty sure he himself is not breathing when Shiro says in a strained voice, “There’s not enough time to thaw Lance and he’s unresponsive. Get a healing pod ready. He… He won’t feel it.” Then he grips the body’s delicately frail shoulders after Pidge has made quick work of it’s restraints.

 

“Shiro,” Keith says, voice growing thicker because fuck, that was Lance, wasn’t it? “don’t you fucking do what I think you’re going to - “

 

“If we get caught, it won’t matter whether we were being careful or not!” Shiro says in an unusual tone, like frantic anger. This is one of the only times he’s heard Shiro yell. “We can’t risk it. He won’t feel it, Keith.”

 

Then, with mounting horror, Keith sees the movement of Shiro’s hands and pinches his eyes shut, ripping off his head gear and covering his ears. Even from the muffle, he can hear Hunk’s vomiting and someone’s crying. He wouldn’t be surprised if it’s himself.

 

Minutes pass and Keith clenches his teeth, squares his jaw before slowly releasing his white-knuckle grip he had on his own ears. His chest is rising and falling rapidly, his head hurts, sound is slowly returning to him and he looks up. Shiro is holding Lance princess style and Pidge is booking it alongside him. His eyes keep straying from Lance’s face because it hurts to look at him and feel like everything's his fault. He didn’t fight hard enough to speed up the process. He didn’t contribute enough. Nothing was enough and now Lance looks like he’s hardly clinging to life.

 

Allura has taken over giving them directions while Hunk is rattling off how much time they have every few seconds. Coran’s setting up the healing pod for Lance and Keith is trying not to have a panic attack. Suddenly, he’s regretting not kissing Lance more, not telling him how much he loves him (even though he’s still having trouble admitting that to himself, nothing lasts forever, after-all), not being kinder to him, picking fights and spurring him on. Quiznaks, what was he thinking? What if Lance is so fucked up that not even the healing pod can fix him?

 

Keith is pointedly avoiding the screen all together now, opting instead to comforting Hunk, who’s probably the more emotional one of the team. Poor guy’s a mess as he wipes his tears and runny nose on his sleeve, reading off the time at a constant rate now. “You guys have three minutes left and I don’t want to fight right now! I’m a mess, I can’t fight right now, I want Lance to be okay and I want to argue with him over which is better, hot chocolate or tea, and if _The Force Awakens_ is even half as good as _The Empire Strikes back -_ “

 

“Hunk, buddy, you have to try and calm down.” Keith says with an awkward pat on his shoulder. It only felt fair that he try to comfort Hunk as Lance had before being captured, especially since the red Paladin had been such an ass to him (and everyone else) in the first couple of months. He was scared and couldn’t think straight. “Th-They’ll probably get back before the security cameras turn back on.”

 

“A’right, now you’re going to wanna take a left, watch out for a galra drone approaching you!” Pidge takes the drone out without hesitation, even though it looks like there’s worry evident in the lines of her face.

 

“Two minutes.” Hunk says, sniffling as he slumps over in defeat. Keith just pats his shoulder again, in hope that he’ll straighten up soon especially if they may have to fight off galra fighter jets. They had already figured that if Shiro, Pidge and Lance were caught they’d have no defences since cloaking soaked up so much power. Even if they turned the cloaking off, it would take a good five to ten minutes until the power was completely reverted to the weapons system.

 

For one of those two minutes there’s a pregnant silence, only permeated by Coran’s directions. Pidge and Shiro’s heavy breathing makes the tension rise a bit higher and Keith finds himself obsessively checking the clock. Right at the fifteen second mark, they make their last turn and are able to make a slim escape. Allura starts preparing the wormhole out.

 

Though, regardless of the security camera’s being off, barely twenty seconds of Shiro, Pidge, and Lance in the cloaked pod alarms start blaring from Lotor’s ship. “Wh-What?” Keith says, throat tightening. “But they - “

 

“We’re on their radar!” Pidge says, furiously trying to manuever their way back to the ship, sweat beading on her brow. “While we were gone, the pod’s cloaking had begun to wear off and it was set to revert energy to keeping it out of direct sight, which left us wide open to be spotted on their radar.”

 

“Quiznaks!” Allura says, chewing her lip. “Reinforcements on the way, the wormhole is almost ready, you just have to be here when it - “

 

“Princess, we’ll be fine, everyone stay at your stations,” Shiro cuts in stubbornly, having been oddly quiet since pealing Lance from the table. “We’re almost to the ship, just be ready to wormhole immediately. We have a moderately okay distance between us and the Galra, plus we can’t risk them using the same tactic they used on Lance. It’s obviously effective enough to take someone else, which is not something I think any of us are eager to go through again.”

 

Keith almost feels bad for thinking, Well, whoever they take next wouldn’t be nearly as damaging as when they took Lance, even though it’s part of the way true. At least for Keith. Yes, he’s grown a bit of fondness and an emotional attachment to his fellow Paladin’s (plus Coran and Allura), but Lance would always be the capturer of his affections. (Even if Keith didn’t like that, didn’t want his heart picking up speed in his chest, didn’t want his cheeks growing pleasantly warm, didn’t trust love to not destroy Keith, both of them really,  in the end.)

 

Allura sighs through her nose. “Shiro, I respect your judgement, but if you three are completely defenseless for the next seven… minutes, was it? Anyway, you’d have a better shot at escaping with someone to ‘watch your back’s’ as you Earthling’s say, and when it all boils down - “

 

Once more, Allura’s argument is cut short, except this time it’s the blaring of their own alarms. A notification pops up in the corner of the Altaen woman’s screen and she enlarges it. It was… the blue lion, flying straight for the three Paladin’s.

 

 _Oh wow,_ Keith thinks with malice, _now you’re willing to help him._

  
It scoops the three up in her huge jaws, blasting them back to the ship just ticks before Lotor’s particle barrier went up. They would’ve been effectively trapped in there if it had. The red Paladin lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding in. (He was too distracted by the threat of Shiro, Pidge and Lance being blown to bits to focus on his own oxygen intake.)

 

Keith always found it strange that the Galra’s particle barrier’s always kept things from going out and coming in, whereas their own particle barrier only kept things from entering. He had never said anything though, because it felt like a stupid question. Pidge probably wouldn’t smacked him in the back of the head and yelled a simple explanation like he was an idiot.

 

(He kind of was.)

 

Lance is immediately ushered into the healing Pod and they blast through the wormhole, the sight of Lotor’s ship becoming smaller and smaller until the wormhole closes completely. They’re effectively blasted across the galaxy, once again escaping Lotor and his armada. But this time, they have everyone on the ship. This time they have Lance.

 

This time, Keith is filled with a feeling like cool relief and exhales.

 

If this feeling were a color, it might be blue.

 

-

 

 _This is it,_ thought Lance as he feels surrounded by warmth, cradled by firm arms, face buried in a stretch of flesh that smells like cinnamon and sweat _, I’m finally dying._

 

Once he read a book where the main character was stuck in a snowstorm. He stayed up for hours thinking about it, thinking about how cold one must be to freeze completely to death (which is what Lance predicted would happen to the main character), until he fished the book out of his backpack and stayed up until six in the morning finishing it. Though, the feelings the character described before freezing were so unlike what Lance had pictured that he chuckled a little. It didn’t make sense to him. He never thought he’d be in a situation where he’d be anticipating those feelings.

 

The character had gotten so unbearably cold that he actually became warm. His mind started to play tricks on him, like something warm was urging him forward, a metaphor for death drawing him further into the storm, before finally embracing him. A wave of exhaustion fell over the main character as he began to close his eyes. When he hugged the warm hallucination back, a final flood of warmth washed over him before he closed his eyes and ‘fell asleep’. He was no longer.

 

This is just Lance experiencing the same thing. Except he’s still too weak to embrace the warmth, which sucks ass because Lance thought maybe if he was in a dream-like state he imagine some mobility for himself. The pain is still evident, he’s just warm now. For a minute, the thought of him not being dead occurs, but he shuts that out real quick. _Nope_ , he thinks, _I’m dead. That’s it. I’m done. I’m finally going to kick the fucking bucket. Fuck this._

 

But then his ears start popping and he’d groan if that wasn’t too much for him to bother with the effort. No. Lance was, unfortunately, not dead. He was very much alive, very much blind, and very much in pain. He tries to not breathe, he wants the suffering to be over, he wants to be able to finally let go after being forced back into his prison of a flesh suit time and time and time again, but no one will let him back that. Lance’s entire backside is stinging with a new type of surface pain that makes his skin scream, but he himself cannot. After his mouth grew too tired to be kept open, he closed it and his lips froze shut.

 

Not to say that he had the energy left to scream, anyhow. It bottles up in the pit of his stomach and is left to wonder what that warmth and cinnamon smell was, then. If it wasn’t death, what was embracing him? Faces of Haggar, Lotor and the second in command flash through his skull like strikes of lightning, sudden and frightening. Though, none of them would hold him so gently, with such care, handle Lance like he deserved delicate treatment. It’s almost overwhelming to be carried in soft arms when harshness has swallowed his life as of late. That and the feeling of emptiness, lost hope eating him away.

 

His consciousness is short lived before he’s falling back into a rest, except this one is filled with light buzzing, like far away voices. No dreams, except for the occasional memory of his friends and family to remind him of people he doesn’t know anymore. Lance is still trying to figure out which is worse, the physical pain or the psychological one. They seem to be on equal ground as the residual cold is finally sucked completely out of him, along with the numb he’d been blessed with after the temperature drop. The weight of his injures hits him like a freight train and he squirims in discomfort.

 

Time passes and Lance finds he can finally distinguish night and day. It’s strange, having been out of tune with the entire concept of time for so long. There was simply pain and numbness, Lance’s life growing to be separated only by those two categories. When the voices, too far away to hear but growing closer every day, started up again, it was day. When they grew silent, it was night. Sometimes he feels a prick against his thighs or upper arms, a nudge at his lips, but that’s the most he feels after five days of being in such a weird, familiar state of half-awareness.

 

It’s like Lance knows what’s going on around him, but it doesn’t register completely. Like his mind recognizes the events currently taking place but has lost the ability to comprehend it all in a way that makes sense. Five days pass in blurs, then another couple, then a few more. The days are much shorter than Lance remembers, but maybe that’s just because he keeps passing out and his sleep is so peaceful that it’s like he lost that part of his life entirely when he awakes.

 

The voices have grown so close after eight days that he can pick out bits and pieces of it, even. It reminds him of the voices of his former teammates, but he knows it couldn’t be them. They’ve left and forgotten him, especially when it’s been so long, they had to of. Voltron is defending the universe without Lance McClain-Sanchez. That’s where they are, doing their job, not dealing with Lance’s problems. A frown forms a crease between his brows and he tosses his head, a sigh escaping from between his lips.

 

An unfamiliar noise invades the blanket of fuzzy transmissions. A click and a hiss, then voices that are clear and loud and very, very similar to the one’s of his teammates.

 

“Holy fucking Quiznaks, he’s awake!” A voice similar to Pidge’s squawks after a large thump resonates in the room. Feet are thundering in his direction and then a tiny hand is gripping his wrist as Lance blinks open his unseeing eyes. His legs start wobbling before he promptly flops down, face first on the floor. At trickle of blood runs out of his nostril and he can’t find the will to do anything but roll over which is much more difficult when his limbs feel like useless slabs of concrete. But, the pain… in his joints has up and vanished.

 

His outside feels washed and clean. He runs his tongue over his teeth to find that the cracks and chips are gone. He’s wearing clean, soft clothes that are almost uncomfortably comfortable against his bare skin. On his back, more voices enter - all similar to the voices of the rest of his old teammates. When the Cuban teenager inhales, he doesn’t smell the stench of himself. It’s replaced with something like strong soap and hospital.

 

Inevitably, though, his insides still feel filthy.

 

Two soft, yet strong hands are pulling him up and all Lance can do is let himself be limply dragged into someone’s arms again. This frame is squishy and feels nice to press his face into. It smells like cut wood, motor oil and baked goods. He fills his nose with in before exhaling. It was so pleasant. This person smells like Hunk. Hunk used to be his best friend. Then, Hunk began ignoring him in favor of the ever intelligent Pidge, whose voice is talking breathlessly with Allura’s voice and Coran’s voice in a pace too fast for Lance to understand.

 

“... and then he just felloutand rolled over! Staring at the ceiling like he was asleepwithhiseyes open, or something, but his signs on the healing pod says that he’scompletelyawakeoratleasthe should be!” The person finishes, sucking in a breath at the end. There’s no ounce of fear in Lance’s chest, even in the unknown. Maybe the fear had been sucked out of him completely, replaced with this calm, relaxing… mushy-brained feeling. Like his mind was leaking out of his ears, replaced only with the sound, smell and touch of his surroundings.

 

“Lance, buddy,” Hunk’s voice says next to Lance’s ears, thick with tears, “I missed you so much. I - I’m so sorry we took so long.”

 

No, he thinks as he sinks further into the body’s squish, you didn’t take long enough. Really, if they had taken just a bit longer, Lance wouldn’t have to feel disgusting on the outside or on the inside. He wouldn’t feel at all. He’d be finally given what he’d wanted from the moment the hope of being rescued left him - death. Lance wonders which machine will scrub his insides as squeaky clean as his external components are at the moment.

 

Lance wonders how long this peace will last before being corrupted.

 

“Lance? How do you feel?” A voice similar to Shiro’s asks and a hand grazes his lower back. He instinctively thinks of the complaining guard, hands roaming his lower half with reckless abandon and tenses - not ready to leave this soothing atmosphere just yet. The hand shies away immediately, almost as if it’s wielder cared about Lance’s malcontent and discomfort. How strange.

 

He smacks his lips twice. “I feel like I miss my old team,” He says into the cushion of the stranger’s shoulder, taking another inhale of the calming aroma, “you guys sound a lot like ‘em. Except, no one’s yelling at me, so I guess none of you remind me of Keith yet. I hope they picked Coran as the pilot for the blue lion, he’d be a good replacement. I miss Blue, too, yanno?”

 

The voices all fall silent after that. The unknown place is quiet except for the shuffling of clothes and shoes, which his ears seem to pick up easier than they had before. There’s an array of whispers that Lance can only pick up a little bit of, before a voice similar to princess Allura’s says softly, “Lance, we are your team. You are no longer in the hands of the Galra and we didn’t replace you. You are free, Lance.”

 

He snorts, lifting his head slightly, just enough to be heard clearly. “Bullshit, Allura-imitator.”

 

“She’s not lying!” Ah, there’s Keith. Always with the yelling. “We spend months worrying about you and spending every tick of every day trying to bring you back and now you can’t even believe we did so?”

 

A grin splits Lance’s face and he chuckles. “Well, you know what they say. Seeing is believing.”

 

Frantic sputters erupt from the soft one holding him and he turns Lance’s limp body around, grip around his ribs, he guesses to face the other imposters. “Then, look! We’re not kidding you, Lance, we’d never just give up on you.”

 

“I said seeing is believing, dumdum,” He says, tilting his head and flicking his gaze around the room, “and I’m not seeing anything.”

 

“Lance, you’re looking me right in the face.” Coran’s voice speaks up too soft to really be his. This imposter’s not as good.

 

“Well, I’m blind, what’d you expect?” He raises his eyebrows and erupts in fits of laughter that shake him so hard the poser-Hunk almost drops him.

 

Somewhere in the room, a cup shatters and collective gasps erupt from the people in the room. Not everyone, Lance assumes, maybe four or five. He rests his head against his shoulder as his laughter dies out, fading into giggles. “What’d you expect, I’d just waltz out of Lotor’s hell cell all sunshine and jokes? I’ve had my arms and legs stretched out of their sockets, been put in an oven, strapped to a chair covered in razors, raped more times than I can count, alien acid dripped into my eyes, and left for dead in a freezer. Then you assholes had to ‘save my life’, when I was perfectly fine just dying. So, thanks for nothing.”

 

“Lance, I - “

 

He interrupts the Shiro imposter with, “I suggest you save yourself the trouble and off me now so you can go back to playing pretend, or whatever. I’ll be having fun in the inevitable void of death.”

 

It’s a shame he can’t see the fist flying towards his face until he’s out cold.


	8. shake what's left of me loose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith’s not sure whether he was in over his head, but he stubbornly clings to the idea that he isn’t. Lance is trying to find a will to live, but it’s harder than it sounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh god, why is school so difficult? don't they know i have a shitty klance fic to tend to? :'>
> 
> yanno i was trying to think of maybe adding a tag for this on tumblr, maybe even creating a new account to keep everyone updated on the production of the chapters (post some scenes from chapters i'm working on, oneshots based off of this, nothing too crazy) but then i thought of how shitty the title for this is!! first of all, it's based off of a song lyric that will make sense at the end (or maybe it makes sense now, shrug) as are all of my chapters (kudos to you if you have figure out what my chapter titles and actual title are from without googling it) second it's a repeating type title which makes it sound stupid, and third abbreivations won't work because ISYS ISYS sounds too close to that one terrorist group name that i don't want to associate this fic with
> 
> so maybe i'll end up changing the title to be more original and sophisticated??? idk, i probably won't even start a tumblr for it because i'm lazy af and this fic isn't even good or consistent enough for it's own tumblr, who would even follow that shit???
> 
> aLSO THANK YOU ALL FOR YOUR WONDERFUL COMMENTS BRIGHTENING MY WEEK BECAUSE SCHOOL HAS BEEN EXTREMELY STRESSFUL LATELY i actually should do my homework after posting this chapter, fuck, BUT YEAH EVERY ONE OF YOUR GUYS' COMMENTS HAS BEEN SUPER MOTIVATING AND I WOULD HAVE GIVEN UP RIGHT FROM THE START WITHOUT YOU SUPER COOL CATS!! i'm sorry if i don't end up answering your comment, but just now that i was so flustered and happy that you commented that i was speechless and too awkward to say anything without sounding as awkward as i am and for those of you that are too nervous to comment i aPPPRECIATE YOUR SUPPORT TOO BRO DUDE SUPER COOL CATS!!
> 
> Aight i'm gonna stop rambling, i sound like an idiot and i'm sorry if this chapter seems rushed towards the end or sloppy, but without further ado SOME STUFF

The culprit of the brutal hit shakes their hand after Lance’s eyelids slip closed and he loosens in Hunk’s grip. Keith swallows down the lump in his throat, unsure whether to be deeply impressed or mildly offended at the fact that the one of crime had just knocked the guy he’d been pining after for months completely cold. It’s a little bit of both, he decides.

 

“Shhh,” Allura says as her face shifts into an almost deadly calm, “I think our blue Paladin just needed a little more rest to cool down.”

 

“Y- “ Keith sputters incredulously, “You just punched Lance in the face and knocked him unconscious!” Hunk has thrown Lance over his shoulder and is already carrying him away, probably to his room that has remained completely untouched. Everything of Lance’s hadn’t been shifted or moved even an inch. 

 

There’s a whirlpool of emotions rotating in Keith’s head and affecting his heart rate. Anger that Lance thought they didn’t care about him enough to rescue him when that’s been their only focus for months. Guilt that they’d let Lance reach that type of low, where he proudly proclaimed being done with his own life and proceeded to list off what they’d done to him in Lotor’s prison. More anger, this time at Lotor himself, for being an awful and despicable person capable of laying a finger on someone who’d started out so pure-hearted. 

 

Underlying fear that Lance would be relentless and carry out his wish of ‘the void of death’, fear that Keith couldn’t fix him at all. Maybe he never could. All he’d ever done was hurt Lance time and time and time again. Sure, there were times Lance retaliated and even rose the arguments from the ground himself, but maybe that’s just apart of his ongoing dance they’re trapped in where all they can do is hurt each other. Of all people, why did Keith have to even be slightly attracted to him? And how long could he keep shoving his repressed emotions of something that he thinks might be love into the pit of his stomach?

 

Shiro seems to notice Keith’s internal distress because he lays his human hand on Keith’s shoulder, brow bone softening, shifting to Father Figure mode for the circumstances. “He’s scared, Keith. You heard what they did to him. I’m not surprised that he… doesn’t want to l - “ He pauses to grimace as if the words were difficult to say ( _they were, Keith knew, because if they were hard to hear for himself he knew it must be worse having to force them out in the first place)_ , “doesn’t want to live. He’s feeling hopeless and broken and… somewhere, he wants to be able to return to himself. It’s a lot to take in and I understand if you don’t think you can handle being basically attached at the hip with him for the foreseeable future.”

 

For a second, Keith tries to procrastinate answering by turning his head towards Coran, who’s loud voice rightly should draw all the attention in the room. Not as loud as usual, but still Coran-ish. “It’s much worse than I could’ve possibly expected,” He says and Allura nods in agreement. 

 

“There was one thing that I don’t understand, though…” She mumbles and Keith sees Shiro visibly perk up, always eager to answer the princesses questions and meet her demands. It’s sickeningly cute, to see him so whipped with a girl he hasn’t even grown the balls to ask out. “Given, I’ve mostly strayed away from human vernacular since we’ve all been busy, but I’ve never heard ‘raped’ before. What is it?” 

 

Collectively, everyone drains of color, even more so Hunk (having just returned from lying Lance down)  who looks like he might blow Hunk-chunks again. Great. The last thing he wants to discuss. The most vial thing Keith thinks he’s ever heard, an image he somehow can’t scrape out of his mind even though it physically pains him to think about it. Rape.

 

“Well, uh…” Pidge’s face is dark as she struggles for words. “I know that Altaens have their mating ritual which binds them to one partner for life and in almost every case it’s a happily-ever-after type situation, but with other species, they tend to… let their urges control them. Sexual urges to be exact.” Allura’s face turns scarlet with what Keith can’t tell is embarrassment or fury. “And rape would be the product of that as forcing one’s self on another to relieve those urges. No emotional connection or bond whatsoever.”

 

His fingers dig into his bicep as he crosses his arms over his chest, glaring hard at the floor. It’s a tragic sight, Lance being forced into something so fucking humiliating and dehumanizing, he almost can’t blame him for feeling the way he does. But, Keith is selfish. Keith is so selfish and he wants Lance to stay alive, if not for himself, then for the team. They can’t keep blaming themselves, even if a little bit of fault lies in everyone. They can’t keep thinking that even though Lance is here, he is just as gone as he was before.

 

“That,” Allura chokes as she covers her mouth and her ears sag, something Keith hasn’t ever noticed happens when she’s sad, “That’s so awful. I… I can’t imagine ever being courted without any feelings for your mate. I would be disgusted with… myself.” Her voice fades quieter towards the end, as if in realization.

 

Shiro nods solemnly, eyes looking glassy. “And that’s probably how Lance feels. I… I know that the future is holding some very hard times regarding our teammate, but just like we’ve been doing for the last five months, we have to not give up on him.”

 

“Why not Hunk?” Keith blurts out suddenly, clenching his fists beside him. “Why me and not Hunk? Hunk is Lance’s best friend and I…” _All I ever do is hurt him._

 

A hand, much softer and thicker than Shiro’s, is pulling Keith into a sideways embrace that surprises him. He stiffens. “Yeah, I am Lance’s best friend. We’ve been with each other since Garrison. But, that’s the problem.” Hunk’s expression shifts from nearly light-hearted to distraught and calculating. “If it’s a friend with my particular history of being the _‘emotional one’_ , he doesn’t want to bother me with his feelings. He’s too cautious around the rest of us, but you’re different. You probably don’t really think so, but you know much more about him than any of us do.”

 

Eyes widening, he looks away with a nervous flush crawling up his neck. He didn’t… He didn’t really know Lance, so why would Hunk imply something entailing such seriousness? Really, out of all the things Keith could take head on without even thinking first, from taking on Zarkon alone to eating three tubs of ice cream even though he’s lactose intolerant, this was one thing that he felt he’d have a bad fucking time without thinking before he acts. After all, Lance may seem desensitized, loose willed, without any will to live, but he was also blind and paranoid. He can’t even imagine what kind of psychological trauma is lying beneath his harsh and disbelieving words.

 

It must have been too damn much to turn fun, meme-loving Lance into what he currently was. Keith can’t imagine that he’s lost himself, completely though. There had to be bits and pieces that were shattered, but not too far gone to be recovered if the right person could coax them back. Was Keith ever really worthy of Lance’s trust? He couldn’t save him from drifting when he planted a kiss on the corner of Lance’s mouth and he can’t save him now, after he’s been tortured for five months by Keith’s own species. (It’s still difficult to think that while he may have felt detached from people back on Earth, he wasn’t even completely human.)

 

“But, wait,” Shiro quips, effectively snatching Keith from the direction of his train of thought, “why didn’t the healing pod fix Lance’s sight?” 

 

At the mention, Coran shifts a little, twisting the ends of his mustache as he chews on his lip. “The healing pods can only speed up the healing process and prevent infections from befalling those wounds. Lance’s eyesight wasn’t returned to him for the same reason one who was dismembered wouldn’t come out with a new limb. Regeneration is an extremely dangerous practice, which is why Altaens had strayed far away from it when the healing pods were developed. Other species, however, aren’t so cautious.”

 

“Then why don’t we go to those other species and get them to bring back Lance’s eyesight?” Keith asks, eyes hopeful. “He could see that we’re his friends and he wouldn’t be paranoid that we’re impostors or something.”

 

Allura butts in, with a worried look. “The thing is, is that these other civilizations that dabble with regeneration are often time hostile ones. For one, the Galra are the most advanced in regeneration, so those who practice it often strive to follow in the Galra’s footsteps. It would be a struggle to find a planet that offered regeneration and didn’t immediately try to take us as captives and rat us out to Lotor. Let alone one that just gives out their secrets for regeneration to any stranger that asks.” 

 

He hates the fact that as this conversation progresses, his heart is continously speeding up and freezing as his stomach knots, in a vicious and repetitive cycle. “So, that’s it? Lance is just blind for the rest of his life?”

 

A scowl is sent in his direction by the princess. “That is _not_ what I said, Keith. I will see to it that we find a planet that is willing to help us with our situation, but even if that happens, they might want something not easily prepared in return. However, we cannot take any risks in Lotor finding us in this process. Lance’s visual impairment might go on for quite some time, is what I mean, and even if we’re able to find someone to help, the effectiveness of most regeneration techniques directly align with species. Some species respond better to it than others. Humans might even be immune to regeneration, for all we know.” Her brows knit. “His blindness… certainly would affect your ability to form Voltron in the future.”

 

Flames ignite in Keith’s veins. “ _Fuck_ Voltron!” He snaps.

 

“Keith!” Shiro scolds in a gravelly voice. “Watch your language.”

 

“She’s trying to talk about us forming Voltron when we just rescued Lance from being tortured and blinded two weeks ago.” He argues, gesturing to the Altaen woman with a gloved hand. 

 

“I’m sorry that while I care about Lance’s health and well-being on a personal level, I have my royal duties and priorities in order, while you thoughtlessly put your reckless emotions above everything else.” Allura says back with tight lips and a frown. 

 

Pidge scoffs. “Royal duties? There’s seven of us and four mice, do you really count as royalty at this point?” 

 

More arguing ensues shortly after, so much that even Keith is a bit overwhelmed by the hostility rising so quickly. It’s making his head hurt so while the rest of them bicker and carry out their petty squabbles (Shiro and Coran trying to resolve it while simultaneously tending to headaches of their own), he slips out of the room. He heads for Lance’s, keen on seeing his sleeping face once more before having to return to the chaos.

 

Except, when he arrives, Lance isn’t asleep. He’s laying on his bed with his arms above his head and his legs spread out, looking blankly up at the ceiling and Keith looks up before remembering Lance can’t even see. He’s not staring at anything, he’s just unable to look at anything. If Keith didn’t notice the vague movement Lance made when he entered the room, he would’ve assumed that he was sleeping with his eyes open, or something.

 

“I’m hallucinating,” Lance says with confidence, like he’s finally figured out something he’s been thinking of for a while, “I’m about to die, I guess. I think it’s ironic that he stuffed me into an oven right before trying to freeze me to death. Lotor’s a funny guy like that. I’ve never felt more comfortable around my torturer. He sure does make for a unique experience, man.” 

 

“You’re not hallucinating.” Keith says quietly, taking a seat at the desk near Lance’s bed with a sorrowful gaze. “Lance, we finally came to get you a - and I understand that it took so long that it seems like a dream, but you’re home now. You’re safe here, believe me, Lance.” The red Paladin had never been less embarrassed about pleading to someone. If there was one thing he’d beg for any day of the week, it was Lance being comfortable and at ease.

 

There’s a look that crosses over his face, like he might burst into tears (not that Keith would know what that looks like, he’s actually never seen Lance cry), before that irritating grin appears back on his face. It’s irritating in an entirely different way than it was before, in a way that Keith wants to see him show something other than smugness after being literally tortured, so that he could comfort the blue Paladin and get it over with. He doesn’t want to prolong it, or stretch it out. He’s always been a little impatient. 

 

“Listen, _‘Keith’,_ ” Lance lets out a chuckle, like the very idea that he was talking to the real Keith was humor inducing, “my old team needed me to fill the shell of the blue Paladin, but that’s it. I don’t have skill and I’m expendable, which I’ve accepted, totally cool with it. They would never come to my rescue if my dumb ass was helpless enough to get kidnapped in the first place. Besides, Coran was willing to try and pilot the red lion at one point, so why wouldn’t he be just as eager to pilot the blue pilot for keeps?” He sighs and turns his head to the side, upturned nose bumping into his shoulder. 

 

There’s something like magma running through him and he wants to scream and cry and strangle the stupid out of Lance, or maybe kiss it out of him, but all Keith can do is sit and keep spewing things impulsively. “We, _us,_ your team, you don’t think we care enough to even try to get you back? Lance, what the quiznak has been going through your head for the last five months? All we’ve been doing in trying to get you back and when we’ve finally done it, you won’t even believe it’s us?” 

 

He blows a raspberry and Keith notices how different he truly looks. It feels odd observing him without the fear of being spotted, but he takes advantage of it all the same. His hair is much longer, almost rivaling Keith’s own, and there’s ance sprouting on his cheeks, but that’s easily fixed. Some of the other changes are downright disturbing. For one, he looks starved, which he probably was, and there’s spattering’s of white and pink scars everywhere. Not big stuff like what Shiro has, but little symmetrical dots all over his thighs and feet, big rings of puckered white crevices over his neck, wrists and ankles. Thin pink lines on his cheeks that look like tear trails, and Keith notices now that there’s a chunk taken out of his ear.

 

Of course he wants to ask about it, he wants to ask him to explain every new mark on his body, but with those wounds on the inside still so fresh, Keith doesn’t want to abuse him anymore than he’s already been abused. “They could survive without me just fine. I’m just a dog to them.”

 

Keith wants to continue arguing his case, but allows himself one question burning a curious hole through his head instead. “Why are you laying like that?” 

 

Lance’s eyebrows climb up to his hairline. “Oh.” As if just now noticing it, he shifts and pulls his arms down to his sides, which itself seems like a taxing enough task for him. He rests a hand on his stomach and attempts lifting himself into a sitting position. On it’s own, it seems, Keith reaches out a hand to grip Lance’s. He helps him up and anxiously sits beside him on the edge of Lance’s bed. 

 

“Haven’t… moved for a while.” The blue Paladin mutters. “My limbs feel like concrete and I don’t even feel like I can bend my fingers.” As if to prove his claim, his middle finger starts twitching and then his index before stilling again. “The cold… it started at my fingers and my toes. I couldn’t see them turning blue, but I could feel it.” 

 

Keith shivers at the confession. “Must have been…” He’s at a loss of words and grapples for the first one that fits, “... cold.”

 

A snort makes him cringe at his own awkwardness. “No shit, Sherlock.” 

 

Their knees brush together and while Lance seems almost nonchalant about it, nudging closer even so that the sides of their thighs are firmly slotted together. It occurs to Keith that before, Lance had trouble even giving him comforting pats on the shoulder, much less scooting on his own account so that they're close enough for Keith to feel Lance’s breath cascading across the side of his neck. It occurs to Keith that before Lance was still a virgin. It occurs to Keith that now, he's had that stripped away from him in one of the worst ways possible.

 

“I’m… sorry, Lance.” He’s not sure if he’s apologized yet or not, but either way it doesn’t feel like enough. With an intense, watery gaze he watches Lance’s expression, not  shifting from a smile that seems so foreign ( _cold, so cold, everything’s so fucking cold since that unfortunate day where they lost their blue Paladin before all promptly losing themselves)_ and eyes that look just as unseeing as they are. He wants to just grab his shoulders and shake him until he loosens and allows himself to cry, there must be tears that he’s holding in. It’s not normal to just sit there, allowing everything to happen around you, with no reaction.

 

There’s a single twitch at the edge of his lips, the same edge Keith remembers so vividly kissing and he wants to do it again, but Lance doesn’t need more shit on his plate. On top of his own recovery, he doesn’t need Keith trying to dump his affections on him. He didn’t need Keith’s love, even when Keith desperately needs Lance’s. “My old team didn’t come for me,” He starts as his shoulders roll in a small, delicate circular motion, “and they never will. I’ll die in this hallucination, in my lonely cell, with my eyes frozen shut. And that’s better for everyone.”

 

Tugging at his heart when he grips Lance’s hand is harsh and painful. “You aren’t dead, you aren’t dying, and I’m never going to let you wind back up in a situation like that and Lance if you don’t - if you somehow still don’t believe that you’re alive with us, with me, then I don’t know how I’m going to - “ He gets choked up as Lance’s fingers starts twitching and he doesn’t notice him stiffening, eyes widening, smile falling into slack panic, “I just need you h - here, Lance, and I don’t know how I’ll live with you if we f - finally got you back and you’re still so gone."

 

Lance's mouth is opening and Keith's expectantly waiting for an answer, blue eyes are growing softer, and Keith feels like he's about to die from the anticipation of Lance's next move. _Do something,_ he urges with his mind _, Say something, anything, I just want you._

 

Of course, that’s the perfect time for Coran and Hunk to throw open the door.

 

-

 

The distraction is welcomed and somehow, Lance has some sort of doubt that this isn’t a hallucination.

 

In the book that he had read so long ago, the warm figure was someone that the main character had become infatuated with before being caught in the snow storm. A girl, of course, because every book in the public library was full of hetero normative romances that had confused Lance so much, made the struggle so much more heart shattering than it had to be, but someone he had fallen for nonetheless. Now, this girl was not kind. This girl was the epitome of Satan’s asshole, an all around insufferable bitch. However, in the hallucination the girl had been a beautiful goddess with a wide and warm embrace, soft words that caressed the boy before he died. 

 

Essentially, everything the boy had wanted in the girl, everything he wanted to draw from her, reveal like she had some hidden affectionate side. Lance expected something similar, except it would be his Mama and she wouldn’t be screaming at him for not wiping his shoes on the mat, her smile would be wide and her arms open to embrace him. Though, this particular situation was very different from what he imagined. For once, it feels like it’s gone on for forever, and another unusual thing is how realistic it all seems. His mind hasn’t made them all kinder, in fact, he’s already been yelled at and punched in the face. 

 

Lance thinks maybe it was just the warmth that you drew from your deepest wishes and desires that drew you further into the cold them. A dream, something he had wished so bad would happen, being saved by his comrades, before he falls into the never ending and forever blackening abyss of his own demise. _It’s going on for so long,_ he thinks as he’s guided to the wheelchair by a hand that’s calloused, yet soft to the touch, a bit sweaty. A hand that feels just like Keith’s, memories resurfacing in quick flashes of every time he’d ever felt that hand in his own.

 

The pain is being drawn out, prolonged. He’s been able to withstand it, but he knows that he can’t take the pain of being in a dream like this for much longer. He’s shattered already, but still breaking, resolve still snapping, even if he feels so empty. Maybe it’s emotions growing like evil plants from the ashes of everything he once was. The resentful and sorrowful version of flowers in the pit on his stomach, vines tangling in between the dips of his rib cage.

 

“So, your bones and muscles are super, duper stiff and breakable from months of not using them,” Hunk informs as someone’s pushing him across a floor that sounds smooth, an undeterred glide. “So, you’ll be pretty much completely wheelchair bound until you’re strong enough to start physical therapy. Then, you’ll move onto crutches, but there’s really no tell tale sign of how long it’ll take since apparently Altaen’s are all fancy and advanced with their healing pods, but have no clue how to manually help someone to recovery.”

 

He can imagine Hunk’s eye roll and Coran’s exasperated sputter. “It’s been over ten thousand years since any Altaen has had to recover manually, the healing pods covered almost all areas with complete efficiency before now!” A throat clear. “And as for your meals, it seems your stomach is too shrunken to take in any solids, wouldn’t want to tear the lining of your insides, now. You’ll start off with soft nutritional shakes!” The wheelchair swerves and Lance can only assume they’re in the dining room now from the clack of plates against a surface, the added sound of more shoes against floor and the smell of Hunk’s cooking.

 

Everything’s so realistic, but if he submits to the effects of his dream, then he’ll suffer a pain equally real. As hard as it is to accept, they never helped him to escape Lotor. They couldn’t have. He already decided that they had forgotten him and it had helped him survive this long, to be hopeless. It’s easier to be empty. It hurts to feel, his joints all a chorus of popping as he’s stretched, his diaphragm hardly able to expand with the pressure about to tear him apart, the spikes digging into his skin and trapping him in that chair, mounted forcefully over and over again until he feels like he can’t breathe and he’s only good for being used, throat heavy from the collar it bears, the hot iron against his skin, the acid trickling into his eyes to disintegrate his cones and rods, the cold. It all hurts and he doesn’t want to feel anymore.

 

So, he’ll keep convincing himself that none of this is real to keep the emotions from flooding back, like a persistent ocean. 

 

There’s bits and pieces of the same liability his team didn’t save, couldn’t save, didn’t want to save, but Lance just doesn’t want himself anymore. He’s too much to handle, everything’s too much, and he just wants to toss his head until everything left of him is too scrambled to ever be recovered, the remnants of his life before the hopelessness settled in, loose and floating endlessly through the void. He wants to meet a peaceful end. He wants the world to stop for him. It’s all too much and Lance can’t take it anymore.

 

“By Keith as usual, I guess.” Hunk says, voice growing more distant and he’s taken back to the days he was ‘in the healing pod’. Maybe it was metaphorical, maybe it was apart of his dream. A strange and minuscule detail that most dreams don’t include. But, maybe that’s just what death entails. Realistic dreams that try to pull you in to quicker meet your doom. Lance… he’d be fine with that if his psychological state could take the trickery. 

 

“Why do you sit by Keith so often?” A curious and prodding voice that could only belong to Pidge prods. 

 

Lance leans his head back against the rim of the chair, feeling his hair press against the nape of his neck. It’s long. He’d wished his subconscious would grant him one thing to make him comfortable. The longer he’s roped in by this hallucination, the less convinced he’s getting that it’s all fake. It feels so real that he wants to spill, to break and let himself be recovered. He desperately wants to be strong enough to endure, but he just isn’t. He isn’t and he should just give up. 

 

“Easier to make fun of our local cowboy’s mullet when I’m closer, of course,” Lance jokes with a grin pulled across his face. It’s halfway true. Sometimes the close proximity was just enough to make Lance feel pleasantly warm in the cheeks, a feeling he’s not willing to admit, even if this is one big dream. The one pushing his wheelchair, presumably dream Keith who’s too much like real Keith for comfort, stops and Lance feels the light nudge of the edge of a surface in his chest. Pushed up to the table. 

 

Dinner with the dream team feels nostolgic and eye opening, an expression Lance technically can’t apply to himself anymore, what which him being blind and all. The conversation is tense, yet it tries to flow easily, allowing Lance to join in whenever he wants. This is what he’s good at. He’s used to talking just to make noise. He was doing that even before he was captured. There’s a straw on his lips and Lance takes it into his mouth and sips. His eyes water up.

 

“Haha…” He says softly and the shaky conversation grows quiet as he tries to blink to rid the moisture. “Ch- Chocolate milkshakes.” 

 

It’s prying into his head, this dream, and fishing memories right out and all the way to his useless orifice. “I still laugh about the fact that they banned milkshakes from the Garrison after one food fight concerning the damn things. God, their food court had the best drinks, I orgasmed every time I had a blue raspberry slushie from the cafe,” And he’s laughing, of course, he remembers dumping his entire chocolate milkshake on Jackson Lassiter’s stupid head after he made fun of Hunk, how good it felt and how he held down his giggles as they announced milkshakes were no longer allowed in the food court, but then there’s tears dripping off his face. 

 

His arms too immobile to wipe them off, Lance just lets it all out, pressing his lips together as hard as he can to muffle the sobs. There’s an arm around his shoulder, then a sleeve against his cheek, a hand in his hair, a hand on his upper back, two hands gripping his own and he cries. It’s not pretty, Lance has never been a pretty cryer. His face is pinched up and he’s sniffling, slumping over in defeat. God, he feels so defeated because this dream of his is probably real and he hasn’t felt hope in so fucking long, he’s still hesitant to let himself feel that, feel anything, but he’s not strong enough. It’s all coming loose.

 

“I can’t,” He gasps, choking on his own tears, hiccups a couple of times, “I can’t do it, I - I’m not - “

 

“You don’t have to,” A strong, confident voice soothes, Shiro’s voice that’s confident but a little unsteady, “You don’t have to, at least not alone.”

 

“We are here for you, Lance. We are your team.” Allura says close to his ear and another sob is drawn from him.

 

“We aren’t just your team, we’re your friends.” Pidge says and her own voice is thick. There’s soft sniffles he can assume are Hunk’s.

 

“You’re like a grandson to me, Lance.” Coran is saying and a reassuring squeeze meets Lance’s hand as he tilts his head to stare blindly towards the ceiling.

 

“I know you already have like four brothers, but you’re like a brother to me.” Hunk’s devastated and emotionally overflowing voice is choking out.

 

He laughs through his tears, when the last voice speaks up.

 

“All of us are Voltron, Lance. You are never alone.”

 

For the first time in so, so long, he feels like he has a winning chance. 

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel like i rushed lance's emotional break and i should have dragged it out for chapters but i got plans and i'm giving myself thirty chapters to carry out those plans, so lol no 
> 
> MAYBE THREE OR FOUR DAYS UNTIL NEXT CHAPTER, I'LL TRY AND CRANK OUT A GOOD 6,000 WORDS THIS WEEKEND, BUT IDK SHIT HAPPENS 
> 
> :'>


	9. when i go to sleep at night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Allura is falling hard and Lance just can’t escape himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm literally so sorry for disappearing i've just been really busy and when i got some time i hit a patch of writers block??? my birthday was 4/10 and it was great, i had a lot of fun!! i don't want to reveal how old i actually turned because i'm a youngster and it's embarrassing af, but i did get an entire year closer to dying, so rip me. also, i think i'm going to stop giving more information about myself because i know i have a few IRL friends who read shitty klance fanfiction and i really don't want them to recognize this as my writing, i'm just not confident enough!
> 
> i wanted to make a miraculous comeback with lot's of gay, but keith is legit only mentioned twice in this chapter and i'm s orry you'll have to wait for the gay, i should've put slow build in the tags (did i??? can't remember) and i've been doing a lot of cosplaying and testing for the last two weeks and i'm freakin s t ru ng the dan ng he c kie o ut. i practically run on doubleshot espresso's and fifteen minute power naps nowadays bc i gotta get them good grades or my parents will whoop my asian ass and i'm also going through this big move and p lea se he lp me g o d d m y lif e 's a m e ss 
> 
> despite all this, i have churned out a moderately okay 4000 words and without any further ado, sOME STUFF

All of these outward displays of emotion have been unsettling for her, to say the least.

 

Growing up as a princess on Altae, everyday was intergalactic battle. People died sometimes and she accepted that, when people close to her died, she shut her mouth and watched the process of grieving happen. She directed people in the right direction and simply made sure that while her close ones healed emotionally, they never lost sight of their responsibilities. After all, death was a natural part of life and war, well, that was more important than anyone’s feelings. People died, the world still spun, every world did. 

 

Seeing so many people upset is eye opening and invasive. Seeing her team upset makes her heart throb. Seeing Shiro so unnerved makes Allura’s lungs feel like they’re collapsing and her gut twists. After dinner, she returns to her personal quarters and spends a good few hours planning which planet they’ll visit to make alliances with once everyone’s settled down, but there’s a nagging at her brain. It keeps poking sensitive bits and triggering memories she’s repressed ever since she woke up from a ten thousand year nap. 

 

When she was three, her mother was killed in battle. She was the Yellow Paladin and after a few months, she was replaced with another soldier. One that the yellow lion deemed worthy, of course, as it was ultimately the lions who would decide upon their Paladin’s. Allura doesn’t remember her mother, only the yellow armor she wore and the yellow color of the flowers upon her royal grave, and piercing yellow eyes that Allura herself hadn’t inherited. To the Altaen princess, her mother was nothing more to her than the Yellow Paladin. Which goes to show how much of an impression she left.

 

However, this Voltron she had formed was so different from the one she’d grown up with. Yes, the old Voltron had their interlocking personalities, but they almost entirely corresponded with their lions and nothing stood out. There were no complexities and no deeper truths, or at least none that Allura had ever witnessed of them. Their characters held no depth, like messily made characters in a children’s TV show. They were heroes. They were not people. 

 

Lance disappeared and all at once, this seemed to cave down on Allura. Hunk, there was more to him than the Yellow Paladin, more to him than an expendable soldier, more to him than a cook. He was generous, but took the life of his best friend so serious that even he seemed so grim for the period of time in which they could do nothing but repair the ship when Lance was being held hostage. Displayed in the exhaustion his frame held for five months, in the crumbling of his composure, in the shaking of his large hands when the blue Paladin appeared on the screen. He was Lance’s best friend, a suitable mate for him even, a hard worker, a determined face smiling as he lends a helping hand. 

 

If Hunk were to pass so untimely, there would be more to him than yellow eyes, a yellow suit, and yellow flowers on a forgotten grave. Allura has never been sure how to feel about that, the fact that’s she’s grown more concerned with the life of one who is not even her own species than her own mother’s. She can’t be concerned over the life of someone she’s never even met. 

 

She’s brushing out her hair while staring blankly ahead when she hears a curt knock at her door and jolts immediately to attention. Shoulders squared and jaw, she rises from the place on the lip of her lavish bed to answer the door. Low and behold, Shiro stands there, looking fidgety and distressed. The princess has found she doesn’t like that look on him. She’d do anything to keep it from crossing his expression. 

 

“Black Paladin,” She says, suddenly aware that she’s in her pajamas and the leader of Voltron is standing before her in his own, “what is it that you desire during designated resting time?”

 

He gives a small bow that makes her heart tighten. Honestly, she has come very far in accepting the fact that she was not a princess to the Paladin’s, no princess to anyone other than her ever faithful advisor, Coran. This gesture… she swallows down the emotion pawing at her throat. The leader was here and he seemed to have a purpose in doing so. She’ll concern herself only with that (for now). 

 

“Princess, I apologize for visiting so late, but I wish to discuss a few matters that haven’t left me alone ever since Lance has woken up.” The Black Paladin clears his throat and does his best to look composed. She guesses they are all in this time. She’s trying to be composed and stone faced too, even when her Pajamas are pale pink and have tiny mice for buttons, even when Shiro’s shirt leaves little for the imagination, even when she’s never seen him this vulnerable and it makes her want to touch him. Inappropriate thoughts invade her mind and Allura has to bite back a shudder. 

 

These are not the thoughts of someone who palms the fate of Voltron. 

 

Hesitantly, the Altaen woman steps aside to allow Shiro entrance to her sleeping quarters. “Then, we’ll discuss them in hopes to ease your burdens. But, I highly suggest you get your rest afterwards. The Blue Paladin’s arrival will not hinder the rest of Voltron’s training, except perhaps the Red Paladin if he’ll be the one to mostly assist Lance through these difficult times.” She crosses the room to take a seat back on the edge of her bed, holding back a smile at how awkward Shiro looks as he shifts in front of her, standing stiffly.

 

“Of course, plus knowing our resident hothead, he’ll be training every minute he’s not with Lance anyway…” He pulls a pink, pink lip between his teeth and her breath catches in her throat, ears twitching without her consent because it’s been ten thousand years since she’s truly wanted anyone and she wants to mate with this man, this human that probably has no concept of Altaen rituals and complexities. Quiznaks, she wants Shiro but in all the wrong ways. 

 

_ What’s wrong with me?  _ “Of course, I expect nothing less. Paladins of the red lion always have that fiery nature.” She hums before blinking. “But, by all means tell me what has been on your mind enough to visit my private quarters at this hour.”

 

Maybe it was a bit rude of a thing to say, but it's worth it to watch the black Paladin get so flustered. “Yeah! Uh, yes, Princess Allura.” He shifts his weight. “It's about Lance.”

 

Her eyes roll automatically. “As I could have guessed, wise man.”

 

The shade he turns makes her want to giggle like she’d seen a small furry animal do something ridiculous. “His… lion, more specifically.”

 

All at once, she drains. It sucks the light heartedness right out of the room and replaces it with a tension that's been so familiar over the months, a weight that is hefty yet all of them seem unable to not bare it. Leaving no room for the red on pale skin and flitting, deep brown eyes and the nervous shuffling she wants to keep to herself forever. Another issue to address. “Yes, the blue lion.”

 

Impulsively, she strokes her hair before folding her hands in her lap. “I’ve wondered for months why Blue hadn't gone to Lance’s rescue when he was first captured, then caught myself wondering again when she actually did come to the rescue, five earth months late. The lions… well, they're much more sentient than mere robots, as they choose their paladin and form a mental link with them. I understand that. I respect that. But, I think that great danger lies in a mechanical beast that can think, sympathize and feel. Always have. If you haven't noticed, there's been a few times your lions have had ulterior motives that require quite the amount of thinking and predicting.”

 

Broad shoulders slumping slightly, Shiro lets out a sigh. “I think I know where you're going with this, but it sounds  _ awful _ . What reason would Blue have to intentionally let him get captured, then aide in his rescue after he's been thoroughly debauched?” He swallows; it's a real show, his chin veers up and his ‘Adam’s apple’ (humans were confusing) bobs beneath the flesh of his throat. The princess wills herself to not keep getting distracted, especially during such a serious discussion. _ I want to bite it. _

 

“Not a clue.” Her lips tighten. “Lance… he's the only one that could pull that type of information from her. Unless the rest of the Paladins lions would like to inform, as I know the lions do communicate amongst themselves.” 

 

“I… I’ll try Black. I’ll bring it up with the others tomorrow.” Another nervous gnaw at his mouth. “Thank you, princess Allura. And sorry for… invading your privacy.”

 

_ No, it's fine. Please, invade it more. _

 

“No apology necessary.” She says instead, swallowing down those words. “Rest well, black Paladin.”

 

His grin makes her mouth dry out. “And to you as well.”

 

Laying in bed, bright in the face and ears twitching with her flustered excitement, she hopes she dreams of broad shoulders, scared over skin, white thatch of hair, sweet smiles and golden interior.

 

Allura hopes she gets lucky with Shiro in sleep.

 

-

 

Growing up a middle child in a large family meant no one really gave a quiznak about your nightmares.

 

It just wasn't likely that any one kid would get recognition for his or her nightmares. If his parents let every child who had a nightmare climb into their bed at night, there wouldn't be enough room on the bed for them. Lance was therefore left to his own devices when tangled in the sticky webs of his own mind and he thinks about that now as his eyes are growing too heavy to keep open. You’d think useless eyes would be completely weightless and closing useless lids would offer no relief, but you’d be wrong.

 

It’s another darkness. Then, he blinks his blind eyes back open, only to find a familiar drip of water on his forehead, the warmth and comfort all chased away. The cold is back for him, it will not let him go and Lance can feel the icy hand reach into his chest to pull out his remaining breathes, back to take him. It’s a hopelessness that reminds him that he never escaped death, he just prolonged it and his hallucinating brain makes a fool out of him as it lets a flicker of his reality back in.

 

Familiar vocals invade his ear canals. Humming and a sound that resembles coins dropping into a tin can. “It took much longer to revive you this time around,” Lotor’s voice slinks through his brain, a lure that invites all the bad thoughts back in. “Did you rest well, pup?” A finger taps against his jaw and the feelings settle in worser. The agonizing dehydration, the feeling of being splayed out for void yellow eyes, vulnerability chewing at his shattered pride and hunger gnawing in the empty, pleading cavity of his wasting gut. His smell. Frozen sweat, urine, blood, the dry gummed taste of sleep in his mouth, strong and overpowering. His head throbs. 

 

He mouths words ; his mouth feels like needles lit on fire had been sewn through his lips. His voice refuses to come out, just dry squeaks. A groan from within his chest leaves and Lance feels absolutely primal and animalistic in this position wherein he’s unable to communicate with words, only sounds. Apparently, he’s not the only one to notice. His capturer is cackling and when Lance inhales, he knows a new era of hell would begin.

 

Fade out. Back in. A series of crackling as he glances around in panic, God, God no, he had a fighting chance for once, he was going to live comfortably with the team, he was going to heal, but it feels like everything possible in this situation is roaring against him. Lance is losing a battle in front of an audience, a huge arena, and no one is cheering for him. They never were anyway.

 

Slowly, his hips slip out of place. Arms contorted out of their sockets. He’s shouting in order to not scream in pain, trying to yell so that he doesn’t cry out, trying to keep that newfound hope alive through strength to endure.  _ But, you lost that, _ some voice in his head whispers and he tries to keep a steady mantra of _ , I can’t break now, I can’t break now!  _ to keep the underlying feeling of fear away. 

 

“I - I’m not fucking here!” The blue Paladin insists through his strangled breathing, the words feeling choked out of struggling lungs. “I’m sleeping, this is a dream, I’ll wake up and - and I’ll fucking kill you!”

 

The sounds of hysteria urge his raw anger, hurt and abandon further. He feels as if he’s slipping on the edge of an abyss that’s eager to pull him in. “Oh, really? Then tell me, why would you still be blind in a dream, if it’s all in your head?” A warm, furry hand strokes his cheek tenderly, a softness that doesn’t deserve to come with a package of unrelenting cruelty. “Even if it was a dream, you’ll never kill me. You’ll never best me, never beat me. I’m much stronger than my father and I learn from his mistakes. With my sharpened army and honed abilities, I could take out Voltron and everyone you’ve ever loved in a heartbeat.”

 

A snarl tears at the edges of caked, damaged lips. “Then, why don’t you?” The handle of the contraption cranks again and his shoulder releases a sickening squelch, like that of what one would hear when pulling the raw, cooked tail of a lobster apart. His eyes water. “Why don’t you kill me, my friends, and rule the whole fucking galaxy already, you coward?”

 

There’s a small sigh, pleased. “Not yet, pup.”

 

Lance blinks again and the cold has drained away - the filth, however, remains. 

 

Confusion pummels his core, his face tightens before flushing. It - was it all just a dream? The thought settles in. He’s warm again, blankets embrace his body? Everything in him burns like steaming iron (the steaming of an iron tube he’s stuffed in; he sweats impulsively at the invasive memory) and he has to take a breath, relax. Ask himself,  _ What the fuck is my mind doing to me? _

 

Five months of human misery liquified and drank from a damn wine glass, yet still he’s being tortured mentally, even when he wants to make an effort to return to some sort of normal (the most normal one can get on an alien spacecraft while defending the universe in a giant blue mechanical lion, of course). Really, what the hell? He’s already in a state so weak he can’t even go to the bathroom by himself, but still life wants to take a huge crap on him. Every time he thinks he’s found some sort of handle on the situation, finally figured out how to prevail even with the shitty cards he’s been dealt, another unknown facture tries to drag him right back to the beginning. 

 

With a sigh, Lance tries to form a fist. His fingers are moving easier now, after about a week of being conscious. He even holds it for a minute before he has to relax his hand, not wanting the onslaught of a cramp to hit him full force. Lotor’s words keep ringing in his ears and he tries to shut it out, to no avail. It’s a feeling like there’s a song stuck in his head, a pop song he’s heard way too much yet cannot let go of, except it’s ‘ _ You’ll never best me, never beat me _ ’. If there was ever something that could make him want to give up, it’s those words from a fictitious mouth that seemed all too real for comfort.

 

Except, that mouth is not fictitious. Lance just thought he had escaped it. 

 

Like in most situations, he’s probably dead wrong, demonstrated in the way it’s ringing like an alarm that blares so loud, your vision blurs. Except, there’s no vision to blur for Lance. His knees bend slightly. This entire trip in the world of consciousness was humiliating. Even during physical therapy with Coran and Shiro, he just feels so useless and helpless that the shear frustration could make him scream until his head pops like a cartoonish balloon. 

 

As if to demonstrate their uselessness, his bent knees wobble before straightening back out, weak as could be and about as useful as his eyes. 

 

He keeps wondering why it was him. He keeps asking himself that if he added all of the sins he’s committed all together, would that torture that he’s miraculously survived be the equal opposite reaction? Or is life just unfair enough to give him a fate he doesn’t deserve? Is it because he’s such a crappy Paladin that doesn’t deserve the support he receives from his teammates, is it because he’s essentially useless? Because he’s tried to fix that, trying still, and nothing seems to work so he believes it’s just expendable is just wound into the molecular strands of his blood. There’s no way to escape it. Lance will never be an equal to those around him.

 

As he’s sucking down his chocolate milkshake tasting concoction, he stares straight ahead blindly. Of course blindly, he’s freaking blind. Every morning when he blinks up expecting to see cieling, he’s reminded that that spectacular gift of sight he once had was so painfully ripped away from him and he was so lost within himself at the moment, he didn’t even have the ability to do anything other than acknowledge the pain and embrace warm death tickling at his lungs. Lance wonders if he escaped death and it’s still looking for him. He wonders if it will find him soon. He wonders if he will struggle or if he will let death have him.

 

Then, thoughts of the fate of Voltron are itching at his brain stem, making him forget how to breath for a moment. No sight, how was he to pilot? He… He doesn’t know if he can face Blue without shame sickening him to the very core. She would slip into his head and pry at everything that’s ever been, those five months of suicidal thought invoking melancholy and endless pools of pain, the filth within him, he’s stained, he’s broken, he’s no Paladin and she wouldn’t allow him entrance to the canals of her mechanical body ever again. Maybe Lance will have to earn her trust all over again. Maybe she will be afraid of Lance sating her with his own inadequacy, like the ever present fear of dirty fingers touching priceless art in a museum. 

 

His straw begins skidding on bits of frost and air. He lets it go, his lips are cold, a brain freeze settles over his skull now and he shudders. “Jesus,” He slumps and squints, presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth. A pair of feet enter the kitchen and like a wife waiting patiently for her partner’s return, he chirps, “Who’s there?”

 

“Shut up,” A high voice responds and sometimes Lance’s stomach still lurches when he hears his fellow Paladin’s voices (including Allura and Coran) because he’s just so choked up. “I wanted to know if you want to learn Braille.”

 

He lets out a hum. Usually, the other’s were busy with training and really Lance didn’t have anything to do other than try really stupid tricks with his wheelchair and limited mobility. Sometimes he listens to Altaen music on this tiny square device Coran gave to him to help pass time. Everyone was always just so busy and he had little more to do than wallow in his uselessness and agonizing reminiscence. He could use a hobby.

 

“You know what, Pidge? Why not? _YOLO._ ”

 

“Please don’t ever say that phrase again it gives me Vietnam flashbacks to really stale memes.”

 

Another pair of shoes stamp into the kitchen area and Lance can tell who it is even before a chipper voice is speaking up. “Hello, hello, hello! What are you all up to at the moment?” 

 

Such a cheerful person. It’s very refreshing, like be whacked in the face with a gust of cool, mountain air. It’s nice to know at least one person hadn’t gone emo while Lance was in cruel Galran prince clutches. “Human stuff.” Pidge answers blandly.

 

“Oh! What type of human stuff? Perhaps I could gain some understanding of your human stuff?” 

 

“Well, Mr. Eager Beaver,” He imagines the confusion on Coran’s face, probably thinking _‘What in the love of quiznak is a beaver’,_ “we’re learning Braille, an alphabet of different combinations of textured dots on paper to help blind people read since they can’t see the words.”

 

There’s a stretch of silence and then a whistle. “That was a suprisingly good explanation, Lance, color me impressed. Didn’t think you were capable of accurately descriping anything other than female assets and memes.”

 

If only slightly, his mood darkens at the comment. He shoves his grimness down to the pit of his stomach. “In case you forget, my dear Pidge, I tested into Garrison too.” 

 

So, maybe you can stop treating me like an idiot. I already know I’m stupid without everyone rubbing it in. 

 

Those negative thoughts have nagged ever since he’s come back. It’s like his brain purposely finds any source of negativity in a situation and milks it until Lance feels like complete garbage, until his chest hurts and his eyes sting, until he feels like screaming until his vocal cords are rubbed raw and his own eardrums break from the volume. He should have expected it. It’s comforting, somewhat, to have those thoughts instead of the ones he had before. Like normality is finally beginning to return.

 

However, flashes of his nightmare sear into the glossy meat of his brain and he forgets to breathe again. Normality… that was probably just a dream that Lance was a fool to think would ever come into reach, direct reach, he’d struggle for the rest of his days (however many there were, if death still has his scent, the taste of his life on it’s maw from grazing Lance so many times) trying to catch it. All his aspirations really. Gotta catch ‘em all.

 

Thanks, Pokemon themesong, but Lance was doubtful he’d catch a single one.

 

“Do Altaens have something similar, Coran?” Pidge’s curious tone is prodding, disreguarding Lance’s statement. Business as usual. Lance is ignored when he defends his wobbly intelligence.

 

“I’m afraid not, my dear.” The royal advisor responds pleasantly. “We didn’t have many with situations such as the Blue Paladin’s.”

 

“You… didn’t have Altaens born with disabilities?” Lance finds himself prying into the conversation, a ball of worry tightening in his chest cavity. 

 

“Oh, of course we did! It’s just in times of war…” He trails off and suddenly, the entire castle seems quiet. He couldn’t. They couldn’t. Lance swallows, mouth suddenly dry. He doesn’t know if he can say anything, but Pidge definitely can.

 

“What? War was more important than life?” She seethes and Lance winces. He’d learned about things like this in seventh grade history. About survival of the fittest, wherein the disabled are… disposed of from birth. Hurt weaves into his worry and then panic. Then, how did they deal with people that were rendered disabled later on in life?

 

“You have to understand,” His voice doesn’t sound like a vocal support system anymore and Lance wants to leave before the argument breaks out (because Pidge is relentless and Coran will try to make her understand, he tries to help so much but this is something completely cold and inhumane, his milkshake just might come up) “most Altaen’s were soldiers, everyone worked for the good of the planet, everyday held risk of being obliterated. Permanent medical issues couldn’t be attended to, the child wouldn’t lived a life of neglect and torment anyway, it wouldn’t benefit anyone.”

 

“It’s still wrong!” Her voice is laced with anger and Lance’s head hurts and his chest hurts and his eyes burn, he doesn’t want to be here as the right to live is debated because death is still hunting him down and he doesn’t want to think that maybe his blindness will prove him non beneficial to Voltron and they’ll just kill him off right there.

 

And when Allura and Shiro finally break up the argument and Lance is wheeled down for physical therapy, he wonders if he was born with this affliction, would Coran glance twice at him then? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cORAN IS NOT MEANT TO BE THE BAD GUY, DURING WAR SHIT LIKE THIS HAPPENS AND IT'S SAFE TO ASSUME ALTAEN'S PRIORITIZE DUTY OVER HUMANITY (altaenity???) EVERY SINGLE TIME SORRY
> 
> also how come none of y'all told me i was spelling altean/altea wrong and now i have to go back and correct every time i've ever written that??? how could u do this to me yOU KNOW HOW I FEEL


	10. breathe deep, breathe clear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance is trying to get better, but he feels so alone in this recovery. Keith is being eaten away, can't even sleep at night, exhausting himself to death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A HUGE THANK YOU TO EVERY ONE WHO SUGGESTED SONGS FOR MY PLAYLIST! It really helped me out, I can't even begin to describe how thankful I am. And I'm sorry I went on that mini hiatus without even warning everyone, but hey!!! I'm back!!!
> 
> To give you all Langst H E L L

It’s getting easier to tell when he’s asleep and when he’s awake, is the first indication Lance notices.

Of course he can never tell the time of day due to his lack of sight, can never tell when all the lights in the castle ship are out and everyone’s at rest (he mostly relies on his hearing for that, to see when everything is dead silent except for the occasional turn or shuffle from a sleepless someone’s room) or when the lights are on (there is the constant buzz of movement to count on for that), but what he means to express is he can pretty much tell nightmares or dreams from reality. The impaired meme is not quite there, but the path is just beginning to be carved and he’s eager to see it to the end.

As well as steadily learning how to manuever around the obstacles of everyday life with his complete lack of vision, it seemed as if everything was going smoothley, even when he knew there were many more things to accomplish. One of those many things being facing his lion, which he still hadn’t done even as the other Paladin’s face their own every mission and fly out to be heroes. There is just the raw burn of not being good enough, of facing rejection. It is fear and Lance is so afraid of no longer being worther of piloting Blue, even if he already knew piloting was probably a no go since he was blind. How could he control a mechanical lion if he couldn’t even walk to the kitchen without tripping three times?

Having moved onto the crutches, he was still so clumsy that it irritated him constantly, especially with Keith worrying about him almost all the time, clinging to his side as if Lance were a damsel in distress. He wants Keith to go back to insulting him again. It would make this so much easier, make this feeling of something outside of the rhythm the ship had before he was taken go away so that maybe he could focus on returning to normalcy. As close to it as he can hope to get, anyway.

It’s still… so far out of reach. He feels like he’s been falling for years, grapping aimlessly and rapidly approaching hopelessly at endless black walls that aren’t even there, looking for something to catch, grap onto, hoist himself back into the land of the living with, he just has to find it before he crashes into the bottom of this bottomless abyss. Or maybe he already reached the bottom and all that’s left to do is push himself off with his legs and sky rocket to the mouth of the cave.

However, this is wishful thinking that happens late at night when all he can hear are his own screams and cruel crackling laughter that bounces off the walls of his skull for hours. Everything blurs when he’s trying to convince himself he isn’t dead just yet. Lance Mcclain-Sanchez is not dead. Not dead. Not dead, not dead, not dead. Not. Dead. Not alive, either.

Is he in some sort of space between, he wonders as Pidge guides his fingers over a network of bumps on paper that he’s struggling to decipher.

“Dude, concentrate.” She bites, letting go of his hand. He blinks blankly ahead and lets out a small exhale as he sometimes does, just to make sure he is actually breathing and that default inhale exhale combo isn’t just a farse his brain’s creating so he doesn’t realize he’s suffocating. It makes more sense when you just got back from a fucking torture chamber.

“Am I dead?” The blue Paladin asks, cracking a grim grin that stains his lips. He chuckles and slides his hands up his face, feels flesh that is slowly becoming acne infested, but warm beneath his palms. Is his brain just fooling him? Is he cold as corpse? Is this heaven, does that even exist? “It sounds so funny when I say it out loud!” He exclaims, digging his nails into his warm, warm flesh, will it come off if he pulls?

“Lance.” Oh, that’s Pidge’s disappointed voice. He’d never heard that voice come from her mouth until he got back. He wonders if it’s because they can’t form Voltron because his vision was ripped away from his fucking eyes. Most likely. Her small hands are snaking over his own, tugging them away from the nail crescents they’re forming in his cheeks. “No, you’re alive. I… I promise.”

“You can’t do that!” Lance yells, aggresively sliding his arm over the table in front of him, sending the crash of papers and Braille tools, sneering viciously. “You’re only promising because I have no way to tell if you’re lying or not! I have absolutely no way of knowing that I’m not dead or dying, freezing away on a lab table, and your promises won’t help anything.” He laughs harder, slumping down on the table, resting his face against his forearms. “Oh my gosh, I sound so crazy! I swear, it isn’t this crazy in my head. But, am I crazy, Pidge? You’d tell me if I was crazy?!” His laughter is hysterical now.

“Y- Yeah. Of course. You’re just… traumatized. I don’t know much about biology because that’s Hunk’s forte, but it’s probably PTSD and… temporary?”

She sounds so unsure. So fucking unsure. “Crutches.” The former prisoner requests, holding out his hands. “I think I’m giving up on Braille. Fun pass time but so hard, yeah? Who even uses it? Where in the quiznak are we gonna find Braille books? Keith will read to me, he doesn’t act enough like my mama yet.”

The cold metal support sticks are placed in his hands and he stands on slightly wobbly legs, shoving off the hand that tries to help him. They all pity him. He doesn’t want it. He’ll take their pity and wipe his ass with it because it’s useless when he’s lost in his head, wondering if it’s an unlikely illusion, albeit an illusion that he could so easily succumb to if obliviousness was an option. Maybe he’d submit to it if he wasn’t able to feel so messed up.

“Shut up.” The green Paladin responds, voice not changing in volume as Lance begins to crutch away gracelessly. Must be walking with him. “He’s just worried. I told you how seriously fucked up he was when you left. I mean… we’re all worried.”

“Yeah, and you’re all mother henning.” Lance breathes an exaggerated sigh. “I’m just a prisoner under more comfortable circumstances now, my dear Pidgeon. I’m always a prisoner.” There’s another smile that’s pulling the corners of his mouth into his cheeks, staring straight ahead and not seeing. “I’m just a prisoner to my own mind now, I guess.” His voice sunk into a whisper and it crawled down the girl’s spine like a flurry of spiders.

She shudders. So intense Lance can hear it. “You’re… working on it. Things will be normal, soon.”

He groans loud and stops walking, he actually has no idea where he was going and where he was. “Shut up. No they won’t, we both know that, silly. You lot need to find a blue paladin who can see so you can fling me out of the ship and then I’ll suffocate or freeze to death right there in the middle of space.”

Then, it gets very quiet and he jolts because it was bad when it got quiet, ‘MY HEAD IS SO LOUD, CAN’T I JUST COMBUST?’ ‘MY HEAD IS SO LOUD, CAN’T I JUST COMBUST?’ ‘MY HEAD IS SO LOUD, CAN’T I JUST COMBUST?’ ‘MY HEAD IS SO LOUD, CAN’T I JUST COMBUST’ ‘MY HEAD IS SO LOUD, CAN’T I JUST COMBUST?’

He wonders why he wasn’t allowed to die in that cold room he wasn’t supposed to come out of and if death is breathing down his neck right now, waiting for a moment of vulnerability to snatch him back right now. He was supposed to, he can feel it in his stomach like maggots in his intesines. Like centipedes hanging from his ribcage, bathing in gore. And Lance is doomed, he can feel that too. It’s just a matter of TIME.

Death will get him yet.

So far into his thoughts again, he doesn’t notice that Pidge is gone and he doesn’t know where he is. He feels for a wall and keeps his left hand on it, hobbling down coridors he used to wander happily, hoping he gets to the kitchen or something. He’s hungry. He’s dead. No, no, no dead, almost there? Heading there? Where’s he going?

Lance feels fucking crazy because these thoughts only seem to make sense to him.

He feels… alone.

Maybe an hour has passed. Maybe two or three. He’s gotten so bad at keeping track of time it’s ridiculous. It’s not even the loss of sight, it’s probably just because he thought he was gone for two years and it was only six months. That wasn’t his own fault though. Lotor was screwing with his brain, feeding him false information and Lance was a starving man, willing to cling to anything, just trying to stick it out. Endure. But, is he enduring now? Is he supposed to be living?

What even happens now?

-

It’s so hard to live with this guilt eating Keith from the inside out.

His eyes burn like he took a fist to both of them and then blinked with acid on his eyelashes and pepper spray eyeliner, and everytime he stands up too fast black dots dance around the edges. Keith does not feel good, in short. Everyday that passes and Lance is still so not okay, so outside of himself, the Red Paladin is lying awake, studying the ceiling, blaming himself hard.

This, of course, doesn't hinder himself from training until he physically isn't able to anymore, even when he's literally running on empty and he aches everywhere that isn't numb from his brain being to exhausted to perceive that pain. His muscles are so tired from training with the bot that there's this sickening, wet popping sound every time he jerks his limbs quickly or gets hit. It reminds him of seafood for some reason. It's been hours. Everything in Keith is screaming at him to stop, collapse and allow himself to pass out right there on the floor, go and feed himself until he's dizzy, take a hot shower.

But, he just can't. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees the kiss upon the corner of his counterpart’s lips, sees the way he shoved him both metaphorically and literally, sees the bags beneath Allura’s eyes the day of the incident, sees her panic, sees the Blue Lion. Floating. Just floating. Hollow, void of her pilot and still in space, being pulled into the ship only from the gravitational pull it produced. He sees every single one of the arguments he’s initiated, the awful things he's said and done, and the day Lance was found half dead and stuck to a metal day with his blinded eyes frozen shut all in just the first five minutes he's closed his eyes.

So, his lids will fly open, breathing labored, brain frenzied and so, so desperate for just an hour or two of peaceful, serene sleep. Thinking about his rotten heart, thinking about his damaged love he’s trying to admit, thinking about unseeing blue eyes and he’s been awake for three days.

Eventually, he’s forced to call of the simulation because his stomach is aching from dehydration and his vision is trembling. Entire body weak, he’s reduced to dragging himself on his hands and knees to the bench in the training deck where he sucks down his water all at once and wipes his sweat with a blue towel. It's still soaked into his clothes, but Keith can live with that.

He drapes himself across the bench, wheezing from his efforts, dark eyelids slipping closed. “Please,” he begs to no one in particular, “Please, just a few hours, I’m so fucking tired, I’m so t,” he can't even finish his sentence. No energy. Like a toothpaste tube squeezed completely flat.

The exhaustion should be enough to yank him into a chemical sleep, but it isn't. He's already considered asking Pidge or Coran for some alien drugs to help him pass out for six to eight hours, but he vetoed the notation when he realized it would make him groggy and put him at a disadvantage if the ship were to be attacked during designated Paladin resting time. He closes his eyes and he hears the rip of skin as Lance is yanked off the table even though he tried to push those thoughts out of his head, his comatose, painfully skinny, bruised body slung over Shiro’s shoulder like a corpse.

“I’m so sorry.” He mumbles only half aware as his miserable eyes peel back open.

“I knew it,” Another voice says and he doesn't have the energy to be startled. Just lets his head fall off the side of the bench to see that - speak of the devil - Lance has entered the training deck, looking lost with his hands shaky as they maneuver his crutches, “I knew you ate the last of Hunk’s crescent rolls, fucker. This means war.”

He swallows. “Shut up.” The Red Paladin says, returning to staring at the high paneled ceiling of the deck. “I didn't eat the last of the crescent rolls. They were… really good, though.”

“Damn straight.” Lance responds, crunching himself closer to Keith, stumbling a few times and going in the wrong direction. “I'm one hundred percent sure he knows the only reason I declared being his best friend at the Garrison is for his mad cooking skills. Just like Mama McClain’s.” The jokester wipes a faux tear.

I'm not good enough. I didn't try hard enough. And you're so damaged. “Lance,” He says in a desperate voice, drawing him in the correct direction, “yell at me. Scream at me. Hurt me.”

“Ahhhhh. Keith, you bastard. You used my towel to wipe your sweat and I know because your towel feels like sandpaper.” He replies in a lackluster, monotonous voice, finally reaching Keith’s location and grabbing said towel. “Curse you. Enemies. Rivals. You don't like Lady Gaga and I hate you.” He tries to sock the exhausted, mullet wearing teen in the leg only to lose him balance and crash into the floor.

Keith shoots up from his position, only for his hands to be smacked away violently when he tries to help the Blue Paladin up. “Off!” Lance hisses, feeling around for his crutches. “Jesus Christ, you guys never stop with the pity do you? Well, Pidge took a large step for Voltron kind when she abandoned my blind ass in the middle of this huge castle. But, the rest of you are still on the fence.”

Keith blanches. “What?”

Lance heaves a sigh, finding one of his crutches and pulling it to him with a victorious grin. “You lot with your pity. Always trying to help me up and lead me places, practically wiping my ass for me. Really, why don't we just bathe together? I’ve always wanted someone else to wash my sweaty - “

“Shut up, you're fuckin’ disgusting.” The Red Paladin intercepts, punctuated with a yawn as he rubs his gloved fists into his tired eyes. “You can't tell me you honestly expected us all to fall back into line after you got back from being tortured and raped for six months?”

“Well, I personally expected to die, but - “

“Stop saying that.” Please stop, my heart hurts. My heart is rotten, but it still hurts so bad.

“Aight, I’ll lie.” Lance clears his throat. “Hi, I’m Lance and I’m not emotionally scarred and I’m not probably fucking insane.” His voice is high and mocking. Keith snarls.

“You're so ungrateful!”

“You're so ugly.”

“You can't even see me!”

“I have a very realistic, vivid imagination.”

His vision swims and he sits back down in a heap on the bench that grunts beneath his weight. What's even left of him? What's the bench complaining about? He's wasting away, being eaten by this guilt.

“I'm so guilty, Lance.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Lance spits, feeling for his other crutch. “I don't want to hear it.”

“I'm so sorry.”

“I hate you.” Lance says simply, forcing himself back up. “I hate you, and I hate everyone else too, but especially you. I'm pretty sure I hate everyone. Those six months sucked everything out of me and all that is left is hate. To quote a wise man, I hate you. I say that not out of anger, but simply as a fact. It's sixty seven degrees outside and I hate you.”

“I think I love you.”

“Yeah? You have a funny fuckin’ way of showing it.” He starts to stumble away on his shaky, toothpick legs. Keith doesn't blame him. He doesn't want to be around himself either. He's pretty sure he can't even blame Lance for hating him because he hates himself everyday for not getting him back before he became this way.

“I know I love you.”

Lance doesn't even give him a response. Just walks out the door after touching the wall for awhile, searching for it. Just back to being lost.

And Keith is back to being so tired.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Btw I'm still taking song suggestions if you have any ideas??? I like my playlists to be length so there isn't any repeats! It usually takes me 3-5 hours to write and edit a chapter, so a playlist about that longer or a little longer is what I strive for.


	11. my dumb ass is talking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a little explanation nerds

wooooo boy 

 

So, This has been a long time coming. I feel as tho I owe an explanation or at least you all want one considering how many comments I still get asking if this boy is discontinued or not. 

 

THIS ISNT DISCONTINUED!! I PROMISE!! If I was going to let this go, I would’ve deleted it. I don’t like having incomplete works I’m not interested in taking up space on my account lol. I still get inspired for this from time to time and I’m still livin the langst life, discreetly. However, if you’ve read any of my other works, for shits and giggles or otherwise, you know my writing has changed and *improved* (improved is a relative term ;\ ), so this is sort of on the bridge. I want to continue it because I have an ending and built up planned out. I still have the chapter plan in my old notebook, ok? But, I’m disgusted every time i read over it at the inadequacy of my former self’s writing. The characterization is skewed and mediocre at best.

 

so, I want to rewrite the chapters!! All of them!! Before I start adding new ones. I don’t know when I’ll have the time to do this because im under a lot of stress in the real world and don’t grill me bc I’ve produced like 100,000 words of NOT i’ll see you soon in the BNHA fandom. I’ll also get around to responding to comments soon. This is a VERY rough estimate, but once I’ve hit the ten chapter mark on Drop Dead (my reverse au fic for BNHA) I think I’ll try and clean up my other works. They’re not abandoned, I’m just overwhelmed. 

 

And since the airing of like two other seasons of Voltron, I’ve been kind of wrecked over how noncanon compliant this all is. This follows an alternate timeline after season three!! Nothing in season four or five or ffickiin SIX is going to happen in this fic!! 

 

Sooo, yeah. Don’t lose hope for this fic, I swear it’ll come back *laughs nervously at the date of the last time I updated it*

 

also, you’ll know once I’m working on this bc I’ll have deleted this 


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